Daughter of Azeroth
by eacarter
Summary: Born in Westfall to a poor family, violet-eyed Idira grows up hungry, isolated and abused. As she grows into womanhood, surrounded by violence, she learns her unusual eyes are harbingers of a rare magic, as old as Azeroth itself, which connects her to a powerful, charismatic mage trapped on another planet. Twice her age, he captures her heart, but her magic has other plans.
1. Prologue

_Daughter of Azeroth Disclaimer: The characters and universe of this Warcraft Fanfiction novel (apart from Idira, Myra, Lanira, Nin, Arinna, Bishop Mattias, Logan, Unambi, Margot, Wynn and Duncan who are my own creations) are from the MMORPG World of Warcraft, and are owned by Blizzard Entertainment. The story crafted into it, is of course, my own._

 **Author's Note:**

 _Daughter of Azeroth_ is a sidequel to my novella _Into the Light_ , it tells the untold story of Idira; of her long and difficult path to her destiny, which is revealed in _Into the Light_. Even if you haven't read _Into the Light_ (although I hope you will!), _Daughter of Azeroth_ can be read as a stand-alone story.

Awards & Accolades

**Winner of The Prose Fiction Awards on wattpad (June 28, 2017)**

**Winner of the Good as Gold Award for Fantasy on wattpad (Jan 29, 2017)**

**Winner in the Fiction Genres Awards 2017 for Fantasy on wattpad (Mar 18, 2017) (Second Place)**

**Top 10 Finalist in The Pursuit of Excellence Awards on wattpad (March 25, 2017)**

* * *

 **PROLOGUE**

* * *

Idira couldn't sleep. Careful, so as not to wake the man beside her, she propped herself up onto her elbow and regarded him. A faint smile ghosted his lips as he dreamed. He had lit another fire before he drifted off, so she wouldn't become cold—though how could she be cold with his warm, solid body next to hers?

Khadgar. She drank in the sight of him. His chiselled jaw betrayed several days' worth of stubble, but it suited him and even if it chafed her skin, she rather liked it. Two diagonal scars crossed his face, long healed, granting him the look of a seasoned warrior. Idira gently pushed the blanket down to his hips and admired the flat planes of his torso, hardened with muscle. Hidden underneath his tunic and shoulder collar, the physique of a powerfully built man had awaited. She smiled as she thought of some of the things they had done together. His stamina was impressive.

She longed to stroke his tousled silver hair, slightly damp from their lovemaking, away from his forehead, but she restrained herself. She didn't want to wake him and lose the opportunity to savour him while he slept. She touched her fingertips to her lips, smiling as she relived the moment the Leader of the Kirin Tor had told her he loved her, whispering the words against her mouth in the midst of a kiss.

Tonight had been her first time with a man, but Khadgar had been gentle, tender even. When he told her he loved her, Idira couldn't stop the tears from gathering in her eyes. He kissed them away as he waited for her, cradling her against him, containing the passion burning in his steel-grey eyes.

She smiled anew as she relived the moment of her first release. She had no idea it could be like that. Khadgar said the room had glowed violet from the light in her eyes. Had it really? She couldn't remember, all she knew was when it was over, she wanted to feel like that again. Khadgar, ever the gentleman, had been more than happy to oblige.

She lay back down, settling her head on his shoulder. He moved closer, his grip tightening around her torso. She turned and caught him looking down at her, his eyes glittering in the firelight, hungry.

"Idira, what have you done to me?" he murmured. He took hold of her chin, turning her mouth up to meet his. She sighed as he kissed her, fierce. Somehow, impossibly, she had been plucked out of her dismal existence, placed under his protection and hidden away in his sanctuary. And now, she was in his arms. Khadgar. The one she had loved from afar for months, loved her too. His kiss deepened as he rose up, taking the dominant position over her. His arms tightened around her, possessive, as once more, he made her his.

When it ended, they lay tangled together in the afterglow of their love, panting and smiling. Khadgar got up and walked to the table, where a pitcher of wine stood waiting. He filled one of the silver cups and brought it back to her. She drank, eyeing his muscular, naked body in the glowing ember light of the fire. He was so handsome, wise and good; he could have any woman he wanted and yet he had chosen her, when everyone else had rejected her.

She handed him the cup, watching him as he drank, his eyes on hers, still dark with arousal even after all they had done. He set the cup aside and wiped the back of his forearm against his mouth. He smiled, making the little lines around his eyes crinkle.

"I don't think it's long until morning. Though I would rather not, I had better let you sleep," he said, his voice husky with fatigue.

Idira _was_ tired, she was already exhausted when she had gone to bed hours ago with only his echo as her company. She bit her lip, and felt the warmth of a blush creeping up her cheeks. He had taken the discovery of his echo quite well, after all. But still, how embarrassing. Though perhaps it had been for the best, it had broken down the final barrier between them and brought them together.

Khadgar joined her on the bed, once more taking her in his arms. Idira settled against him, idly trailing her fingertips along the outline of his pectorals. He groaned and caught her hand, stopping her. Pressing her palm to his lips, he kissed her, soft, sending tingles up her spine. Folding her fingers over her palm, so his kiss would remain safe inside, he lay her hand on his chest, his hand covering hers. His lips brushed against her forehead.

"Sleep my love, before you awaken me anew."

She nodded, and tucked her head against his neck. He stroked her hair, his fingers gentle, soothing. Sleep called. Her eyelids drifted down. She fought her fatigue, not wanting the night to end. As she succumbed to the realm of dreams, she heard him whisper words she suspected weren't meant for her ears.

"There will never be anyone but you. My heart is yours, Idira."

Unable to stop her fall, she slipped away and dreamed of him, of Dalaran, of Stormwind and Westfall, and later, of demons—and how it all began.


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER 1**

* * *

Her father was shouting again, but at least this time he wasn't shouting at her. Idira shuffled further back into the shadow of the doorframe, pressing her back against the rough planking of the wall. Cold drafts of wind thick with the scent of brine and fish gusted through the cracks, breaching her thin homespun linen tunic. She looked down at her feet and noticed her bare toes stuck out past the edge of the door. She curled them in. Now she was safe and Papa wouldn't be able to see her. Idira could hear him panting, and knew he was preparing for the big part, when he hit somebody or broke something, or both. She wanted to close her eyes, but it was too dangerous, he might come in and she had to be ready to run.

"Ye call this dinner? This isn't fit fer pig slop!" Papa yelled, his loud, angry voice filling the house, flying away on the wind, all the way to the sea. A crash. His wooden bowl, coated with the dregs of Myra's potato soup flew past Idira and bounced off the bedroom wall. It tumbled back across the uneven floorboards and smacked, hard against Idira's shin. Pain exploded in her leg, blossoming out in harsh, jagged waves. She clenched her fists and bit her lip to stop herself from crying out. She could hear her older sister Myra crying.

"Oh stop yer blattin'," Papa snarled. "Ye need to toughen up, I'm educatin' ye, ye ingrate, preparin' ye for marriage. Westfall boyos like Benny don't like their wimmen weak-minded like them fools up Stormwind way. Ye think I don' see ye lookin' towards them city spires in the distance wit' a faraway look in yer eye—the city yer Papa spent years helpin' ta build? The city that betrayed him?" He made a nasty noise as he hawked up the phlegm in his throat. He spat it out onto the floor, and sniffed as he warmed to his favourite rant. "Lemme tell ye the facts. That city is full o' greedy, grasping bastards, not one good man among them. All these years me and the others spent rebuildin' it and making do, waitin' on them ta fulfill their promises for the money we were owed. Money they never intended to pay!" Myra cried out, sharp. "Ah shut it. A good hair tugging'll not hurt ye. Yer Mama, Light rest her soul, never needed disciplinin', she knew her purpose an allus kept her place, never once looked at them city lights. Not like ye and yer useless purple-eyed freak of a sister. Worthless, the both of ye."

Another crash, as he let her go, sending Myra flying past Idira's hiding spot. Her sister tumbled into the table, knocking over the stools as she struggled to keep her balance. She cried for real now. Wailing like a mama cat who had her babies taken away to be drowned.

"I'm sorry Papa," Myra sobbed, pathetic, desperate to appease him and make him stop. "I don' wanna disappoint ye. I wanna make ye proud like Mama did. I will be better, I promise. I won't never look at Stormwind again, I swear it."

Papa went real quiet, like he always did whenever he was winning. He sniffed again. "Well. Good. Ye better clean up this mess ye made. Just remember ye're sending your Papa to the labourers rally without any dinner tonight."

Over Myra's quiet sobs, Idira listened, her heart pounding, as her father moved around the outer room, collecting his things. She knew the routine, almost every night it was the same. First the dresser where he kept his papers, showing the enormous amount of money still owed to him being tucked into his pouch, then the familiar hiss of his daggers being pulled from their scabbards as he checked them, and finally the rasp of leather straps as he cinched his scabbards to his belt. The door opened, letting a sharp gust of sea air into the room, Idira's thin tunic flapped against her bare legs. She pressed her hands against it, holding it still, praying her father hadn't seen.

The door slammed shut, making the windows rattle. His heavy booted footsteps crossed the porch, down its rickety steps and crunched over the broken pieces of firewood that lay scattered around the chopping block.

Idira uncurled her toes, cramping from holding them in for so long. She leaned around the edge of the doorframe. Myra sat on one of the stools, staring at the mess on the wall. The soup dripped down the raw planks, blobs of potato still stuck to the rough surface. In the middle of the floor, a thick gob of slimy green phlegm lay in a puddle of saliva. Idira gagged and averted her eyes, hoping Myra wouldn't make her clean it up like last time.

Idira crept over to her sister, keeping the table between herself and the nasty puddle on the floor. Myra ignored her. She glared at the wall, her eyes bright with tears. Idira touched her sister's leg.

"Myra?"

Myra pushed Idira away. "Leave me alone."

Idira nodded and backed away. Myra was a lot older than her, thirteen years to be exact. Idira would be six in two months, and on the same day Myra would turn nineteen. Papa said if he didn't need Myra to take care of him, he would have already let her marry Benny Blaanco, a big, muscled Westfall boy from Moonbrook who had taken a shine to her pretty, blonde haired sister. Sometimes Benny came around with a fat wedge of Alterac Swiss and a bottle of Moonberry Juice. He was always nice to Idira, too. Benny talked a lot about Elwynn Forest, said he was saving up for a little farm of his own, that he would have enough soon and would need someone to share it with. Then he would look in a funny way at Myra and she would blush. While they weren't looking, Idira helped herself to a little extra cheese and wondered why adults acted so strange. Why they didn't just say what they meant?

Unlike Papa, Benny always seemed to have money, slipping a few silver pieces to Myra whenever her father wasn't looking so she could buy food, but Benny wouldn't ever say how he earned it. Maybe he had found treasure. It could happen. Sometimes it happened, Myra had said. Idira wished she could find treasure. She also wished she could go to Elwynn Forest, it sounded a lot nicer than the dried out husk of Westfall.

She pushed the door open and went out into the dusty yard. A few hens veered towards her, hoping for some food, but there was nothing to give them, as usual. They hung around for a while, making hopeful noises, then wandered off one by one to scratch at the dry earth, searching for any scraps they might have missed. Idira wandered around watching them, at a loss for something else to do. The evening sun hung low in the sky, and the wind blew through the yard in sudden, fierce gusts, carrying the stink of the sea up the side of Westfall Cliffs and into their little farm perched near its edge.

The sea's smell was stronger than usual. Idira turned and sniffed, hope blooming in her heart. The air was definitely stinkier. That meant it was raining out to sea and there would be crabs in the traps tomorrow. Idira rubbed her tummy, trying to ease her hunger pangs. There had only been one potato left in the pantry today, so Myra had given all the soup to Papa, because he had said tonight's rally was an important one and he would need all his strength.

Idira decided to walk down the cliff path to the beach and check the traps, to make sure they were still in place and undamaged. Papa had no interest in them, or in the farm he had inherited from Mama for that matter, so Myra and Idira did the work. As Papa liked to remind them, he was a mason, a builder of stone and not a common farmer. He wasn't an important mason, just a regular one, but he sure was proud of his skills. Maybe a little too proud. _They still had to eat_ , Myra had muttered more than once behind his back.

Papa kept saying when he got the money he was owed, Myra could marry Benny, and then he would use the money to build himself a big stone house in the Redridge Mountains and afterwards he would spend the rest of his days hunting boars. He never said anything about taking Idira with him, she supposed Myra would have to take her with her, but then, maybe she wouldn't. Myra never seemed to have much time for Idira either, if the truth was told. Idira pressed her lips together, pushing down the familiar bite of loneliness. Nobody really seemed to care about her, all she was to Myra and Papa was a burden. She knew she wasn't making that part up, because she had overheard them talking about her late one night when they were out on the porch and she was supposed to be asleep.

As she neared the top of the cliff path, her thoughts brightened as she thought of Benny. He wouldn't leave her behind, all alone in Westfall. Benny was her friend, actually apart from Papa and Myra, Benny was the only other person she had ever met. No one except Benny ever came out to their place, it was too far off the beaten path, Myra said.

The last time he had visited, Benny had talked about reports at Sentinel Hill of murlocs moving north up the beach from the lighthouse, and something having to be done about them. He warned Myra to be careful, and not to go down to check the crab pots anymore. Idira didn't say anything, because she already knew about the murlocs, even though at the time of her discovery she didn't know what they were called.

She had been wandering around the rocks on the beach, looking for treasure when she had pushed through a thick patch of dune grasses and walked right into one of them. It was so bizarre looking, she had nearly died of shock. The poor creature, almost as tall as her looked pretty scared too, for a walking fish-head, that is. It stared at her with its huge fish eyes, first one eye, then it turned on its two legs and eyed her with its other. And then, incredibly, it _talked_. It said something totally incomprehensible. The creature sounded a lot like she would if she tried to talk with her mouth full of water, while gargling. She had just stared at it, astonished by the strangeness of it, until it ran off. If those creature were the big threat Benny had warned Myra about, it all seemed a big fuss for nothing. Idira didn't think there was any reason to stay away from the crab pots, just because of walking, talking fish-heads. She was hungry after all, and the murlocs seemed more afraid of her than she was of them. Sometimes, Idira thought people were a little too quick to kill things. Maybe the murlocs were just hungry, too.

Idira stopped halfway down the cliff and looked out over the empty beaches, littered with driftwood, and moss covered rocks. Sometimes when the tide was out she would find a pretty stone or a sea shell in the shallow rock pools. She liked to make necklaces out of her shells. Once she made one for Myra for her birthday, but the next day when Idira went out to the outhouse, she saw her gift laying half-buried in the midden heap. She decided to leave it there, even though she had used up all her best shells for Myra's gift. She didn't want Myra to know she knew, so she covered it up in case Myra came back and wondered if Idira had seen it. She didn't want Myra to feel bad.

Movement near the crab pots caught Idira's eye, the fish-head stood up, its body glistening as the water sluiced off it, clutching a crab in its hand. Idira's jaw dropped. Crabs already? They could eat tonight? Wait, that murloc was stealing their food. Driven by her hunger, she ran down the path, keeping one eye on the murloc, and the other on her footing. Her thoughts raced ahead. What if it had taken the only crab? She couldn't let it have it. They were her traps, after all.

She bolted across the beach, jumping over driftwood and splashing through the rock pools, straight at it. It was already tearing the crab apart, eating it. The crab wiggled, still alive, the murloc hadn't even had the decency to kill it first. It bit into the crab again, right through its shell. It had very large, sharp teeth. A lot of teeth. Something inside Idira warned her maybe she should slow down, and think about what she was doing, but _it is eating my dinner_ another part of her yelled back. She ran at it, waving her arms, screaming with hunger and frustration.

It turned, its mouth full of crab innards, and snarled at her. It ran at her with its mouth open wide, making its strange noises, only this time it sounded very hostile. Idira stumbled to a halt. She had thought she could scare it away, like the ravens that sometimes picked on the farm cat, but she was wrong. That thing was going to kill her, tear her apart just like it had torn the crab apart. She stood, terrified, unable to move as the creature ran at her, all teeth and eyes, with slimy bits of crab insides dangling out of its jaw. A blur ran in front of her, and caught the murloc just as it was about collide with her, sending it tumbling into the grasses. They rolled down the beach, hitting bits of driftwood and bouncing off rocks. Idira backed up, panting. Another fish-head? Why would a fish-head help her?

She didn't stick around to figure it out. She turned and ran, as fast as her legs would carry her back up the cliff path. At the top, she looked back down and saw the two of them still fighting, tearing at each other with their teeth. They both looked the same so she couldn't tell if her fish-head was winning or losing. She hoped it would be okay. It had saved her life. She sat down and waited, she had to know who would win. Their fight went on, slowing as their injuries increased. The sun slid beneath the horizon, and their bodies melded with the shadows. Idira waited until she couldn't hear them anymore. It was over. She fretted, worrying for the one who had saved her.

The next morning she got up early. She slid out of the bed she shared with Myra, and tiptoed out into the main room. Myra had made up Papa's cot, but it hadn't been slept in. That was strange. Papa always came home. Even if he was a little scary, he never left them alone at night. Well it was morning now, and they were alright. She decided to worry about him later, her guilt over the fish-head had kept her awake half the night. She had to know who won. She slipped out of the house and made her way to the cliff path, just as the sun began to breach the horizon. She stopped at the top of the path. A pile of rocks stood in the middle of the path. That was new. She looked around, trying to figure out who had put it there, but as always, the windswept cliff-edge was barren of life. Even the vultures were still sleeping.

She edged closer to the pile, narrowing her eyes in the half-light. Perched on its top lay a sea shell, the prettiest one she had ever seen. She picked it up, admiring it. Pure white on the outside, its inside glowed a soft pink colour and twisted away into itself. It was as big as her hand. She smiled, delighted, doing a little jig. She looked around for Benny. It must have been Benny, who else could have done it?

Movement by the side of the path startled her. She waited, a little afraid. One of the fish-heads emerged from the long dune grass, holding something in its hands. She took a step back, frightened. It said something, a little gargle, soft, like a question. Was it her fish-head? She stepped closer, hoping with all her heart it was. It had cuts and gouges all over its fish-like body, but none of them looked serious. It held its funny three fingered hands up to her, holding a big crab, still moving. It set the crab on the path and took one of the rocks from the pile. It lifted the rock and slammed it down in exactly the right place, killing it. It looked up at her with one of its eyes and pointed at the crab, then her house, gurgled a little more, and then backed away, disappearing into the grass.

Idira crept forward and knelt to pick up the crab. It was heavy. Bigger than anything her crab pots could catch. Her sea shell wobbling on the top of the crab's back, she went home. The fish-head, no the _murloc_ had brought her a crab. It was a little strange, but she was grateful. She set the crab on the table, and started the work of cleaning it. Myra would be happy, Idira smiled a little as she prised the meat from the shell, maybe her sister would be nice to her today when she saw what Idira had brought home. She wouldn't tell her about the murloc though. Idira was pretty sure Myra wouldn't believe her and anyway, she didn't want Benny to find out about her new friend. He might hurt it.

Later, as the crab meat simmered in the cooking pot filling the house with delicious smells, Idira idled on the porch, laying on her stomach, kicking her legs in the air. She held the sea shell to her ear listening to the magical sounds inside, thinking about her sudden murloc friend. A shout came from the distance. She looked up. His head hanging, her father limped, supported by Benny, across the barren fields. Benny called again, bellowing and gesturing at Idira to get Myra. Blood stains covered their torn clothes, and numerous cuts and bruises covered their faces and arms. Papa's face had blood all over it from a deep gash on the top of his head.

Her heart in her throat, Idira jumped up, calling for Myra, but her sister was already running out of the house wiping her hands on her apron. She made a strange choking sound and rushed down the steps, tripping over the hem of her skirts as she ran across the dusty field. Idira could hear her calling their names, over and over, panicking. She reached them and put herself under Papa's other arm, helping Benny to carry him.

Idira couldn't just stand there, staring, so she ran to get a bucket of water from the well. She could heat up some water, that would be helpful. She lugged the heavy bucket into the kitchen and ladled it into a big pot on the pot belly stove. A racket came from the porch as the others struggled to get Papa up the steps. Idira ran to the door, and held it open wide. Benny came in first, sideways, then Papa, and finally Myra. Idira blinked back tears, there was a lot of blood all over both of them. She hoped Benny wouldn't die.

"Benny are you okay?" she asked, her eyes widening at the deep cuts on his muscled arms.

"Aye, I'll be fine, don't ye be worrying about me. Let's get yer Papa sorted, he's taken the worst of it." He eased Papa onto the cot and began stripping him. Papa's belt and boots hit the floor with heavy thuds. Idira scrambled to move them out of the way.

Benny glanced at Myra and gave her a quick kiss. "Don't be fretting, love. Yer Pa's a tough man, he'll come through this. He took down a fair few o' them bastards before he fell. Mr VanCleef wants him to work for him now, high up like. Working for VanCleef means money ain't going to be a problem fer yer Pa anymore. Trust me, I know."

Idira stayed out of the way, waiting for the water to heat, listening as the two worked to get Papa ready to be washed.

"Orders are ye're going to move south, ta Moonbrook. VanCleef is sending some men round and a wagon so get yer things in order. It'll be tomorrow morning latest, the Stormwind guards are going to be coming this way soon, after what happened."

Move? Idira didn't want to move. What about the crab pots, and her murloc friend?

She stepped closer and tugged on Benny's torn sleeve. He turned.

"Why do we have to move? What happened?"

A sharp cuff smacked against the back of her head. Idira rubbed the sore spot, her eyes watering.

"Oh hush yer mouth Idira," Myra snapped, irritable. "Just do as yer told, and get some hot water for Papa."

"Oi! She's allowed to ask why, she is leavin' her home after all." Benny knelt down beside Idira and looked her right in the eyes. Benny never ever said anything mean about her purple eyes, not like Myra and Papa.

"The money what was owed to your Papa, well him and a lot of others found out last night they would never be paid, ever. So they went to Stormwind and there was some fighting with the nobles what wouldn't pay. The good queen Tiffin, she took our side, but she got hurt real bad, and died on the spot. And now, them bastards is blaming us Westfall boys for her death. We gotta gather up in one spot. Moonbrook is far enough away, and we can allus hide in the mines if need be, at least till we get organised."

He stood up. "And you mark my words, VanCleef is goin' ta get us organised." He smashed his fist into his palm. "One way or another Stormwind is goin' to pay."


	3. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER 2**

* * *

The wagon arrived at first light. Myra was still shoving the last of their things into rough hessian sacks when three big, burly men arrived, their patched leather tunics straining against the solid slab of their muscled torsos.

At an impatient gesture from Myra, Idira opened the door. One, then another, ducked into the main room, their massive presence filling up the confined space. Idira eyed their shaven heads, and the multitude of strange tattoos on their arms. One of them a had a black leather patch over his left eye. Even standing there, not doing anything, he looked mean, like he could torture a puppy for fun. She shuffled back into the shadows, not wanting to attract any attention to herself.

The last one came in and closed the door behind him. He tipped his head to Myra.

"Miss Northshire, Mr VanCleef sent us round to help ye wit' yer move."

Her lips pressed together, Myra just nodded, and carried on packing, jamming the last of the pots into the sack, not caring about the racket she was making.

He cleared his throat and lifted his voice above the clatter. "Ye can call me Jim, and this here's Fence, and—"

The biggest one, the one with the eye patch, lifted his hand and cut Jim off. He turned to Papa. In the half-light of dawn, most of his face was in shadow. He held out a meaty hand, his knuckles and fingernails crusted with dirt.

"Mister Jac," he said in a gravelly voice, "it's an honour ta meet ye. They call me Borda. I'm the master blacksmith down Moonbrook way."

Papa looked Borda over, inspecting him, his lips twisting like they always did whenever he was deciding whether he would be nice or not. He sniffed and leaned forward, jerking his head to where Myra was standing in the kitchen.

"Ye better be taking me to a better place n' this one here."

Borda didn't look at Myra, he just kept on holding his hand out, waiting.

"Aye," he answered, "it's the second best house in Moonbrook, VanCleef's orders. The servants o' the last Enforcer are in there now getting it all ready for ye's. Baking bread and roasting boar meat and what not."

Boar meat? Bread? Idira felt her eyebrows lifting to her hairline. She'd never had roast meat in her life. She glanced at Myra, hoping to share her delight with her. Myra ignored her.

"That's all well an' good," Myra said, her voice full of hard, angry edges, "but what about our house and land? Does yer Mr VanCleef expect us just ta abandon it?"

Papa glared at Myra. "Ye shut yer gob," he growled. "They can burn it ta the ground fer all I care."

Borda gave up waiting for Papa to accept his hand. He turned to Myra and looked her over, appraising her. A glimmer of appreciation slid across his face as his one eye drifted over her. He had something in his mouth, like a little stick, he moved it from one side of his mouth to the other just using his lips. Idira couldn't help but stare, fascinated. He tilted his head at the other two waiting behind him, their thick, muscled arms crossed over their tunics.

"We've some planks wit' us. Jim n' Fence'll be boarding up the winders and the door after ye leave. Should keep out the vagrants and the vermin. Heard ye got them stinking murlocs up this way now too."

Idira looked down at her bare feet, fighting a sudden upwelling of sadness. She had gone to look for her friend last night after Papa fell asleep and Myra was out 'walking' with Benny, but her friend was nowhere to be found.

Not knowing what else to do, she made another little pile of stones beside the murloc's pile, and lay her best seashell necklace on top. That one had taken her three days to make. She hoped her friend would like it. She waited, hopeful, until the black sky filled up with stars, their crystal light glimmering against the surface of the dark, roiling sea.

It wasn't fair, just as soon as she made a friend, she had to leave. She wanted to stay, but she had no say, no one cared about her feelings or what she wanted. She was just Idira, the one who had made Mama die when she was born. Myra told her often enough how much she wished it had been Idira who had died on the birthing table instead of Mama. Papa said it was Idira's purple eyes what killed Mama, saying Idira was cursed. Idira rubbed her eyes, wishing for the millionth time she could make the awful colour go away. She didn't mean to kill Mama, nobody ever asked, but she missed her, too.

Papa stood up, slow because of all his injuries and held out his hand to Borda. Fresh blood seeped out of Papa's scabbed knuckles as they shook hands. Papa was a little taller than Borda, and Idira was pretty sure Papa preferred it that way. He glanced at the other two, waiting by the door and sharpened his voice, "Aye, that'll do. Get them boyos movin'. I don' wanna keep VanCleef waitin' longer n' necessary."

They started with the big pieces of furniture, the kitchen table, and the big bed with the solid wood headboard and feather mattress; what used to be Mama and Papa's bed but when she died Papa said he would never sleep in it again, so now Myra and Idira shared it. Next came the dresser, and the stools, and finally Papa's cot.

Myra made a big fuss about leaving the pot belly stove behind, since it had been one of Mama's prized possessions. Myra harped on about it for so long, Borda finally said he would send another wagon round to collect it later, even though he had told her _twice_ the house they were moving to had a much nicer cast iron stove.

While the men were busy tying up the last of the chicken crates to the sides of the wagon, Idira went to fetch the farm cat, Blackie. All black, except for a little white patch on her nose, Idira found Blackie hiding under the porch, her green eyes all big and scared. Idira wiggled under the low planks to reach her, the dust in the closed up space making her eyes water. Laying flat on the rocky soil, she extended her arms before her and opened a little piece of oilskin, carefully unwrapping the glistening white meat tucked inside, saved from her crab dinner yesterday. The tangy smell of it filled the narrow space. Blackie would be hungry, like always. The cat stretched her neck towards the meat, catching its scent. She licked her nose, tasting the air. She crept closer, wary. Booted footsteps pounded up the steps and across the porch, Blackie froze. Idira held the meat steady, waiting, willing the cat not to run. She could hear Papa moving around the house, yelling her name, angry and impatient, saying it was time to go.

"Please, Blackie," Idira whispered, her heart in her mouth. She couldn't make Papa wait, but she didn't want to leave the cat behind either, especially not when they were going somewhere where there would be food. Blackie shifted a little closer, and touched her nose to the meat. Quick as lightning, Idira grabbed Blackie by her scruff and scuttled back out from under the porch. Avoiding the cat's claws, she slipped her into an empty chicken crate and tied the door shut. As the cat bellowed in terror, Idira slid back under the porch and salvaged the crab meat. She pushed it into the crate, dropping a little on the ground in her haste. Blackie bolted it down, her hunger overcoming even her fear of confinement.

Idira lifted the crate and ran to the waiting wagon. Borda helped her up into the back and handed her the cat, shaking his head at her efforts. She knew the others didn't care about things like hungry cats, but she couldn't help it, she did. A hand smacked against Idira's temple. She turned. Myra glared at her from the bench up front, full of loathing.

Rubbing the sore spot, Idira settled the crate on her lap as Borda called to the big workhorses. With a creak of leather and a jangle of harness the wagon turned, slow under its heavy load. She looked back at the small two-room house she had lived in for almost six whole years of her life. The roof sagged in the middle, and some of its tiles had slipped free, leaving behind a wavy pattern. Beyond the house, the waters of the Great Ocean stretched away to the horizon, its wave crests glittering in the morning sun. She wondered if Moonbrook was close to the sea. She hoped so.

Jim and Fence were already hefting the pot belly stove down the porch steps, the muscles in their thick necks showing from their exertion. They left the stove standing in the middle of the yard, waiting to be collected. Fence picked up one of the new planks of wood, and held it up while Jim pounded nails into the kitchen's window frame, the staccato beat of his hammer carrying across the empty, desolate fields. Idira stared at the stove sitting alone and forlorn in the desiccated yard, it looked sad. She felt sorry for it, taken away from its home.

Blackie hunched down in her crate and began to pant. Idira poked her finger through the wooden slats, and stroked Blackie's nose, trying to make the cat feel better.

"You'll see," she murmured quiet enough so Myra wouldn't hear, "where we're going there's boar meat, you wait and see. It's going to be better. I promise."

* * *

The sun was at its highest when Borda's horses finally pulled into Moonbrook. Idira stared, wide-eyed, at the sudden existence of so many people. She ducked her head, shy, and peeked out between the slats of Blackie's crate. To either side, two-storey houses crowded up onto the street, the smallest of them at least four times the size of their little house. A few of the houses were very fancy, their carved and polished wooden beams gleamed in the sunlight, and smart red tiles covered their roofs. Within shiny clean windows, pretty blue curtains drifted in the breeze. One of the houses even had little planters with blue and red flowers on its window ledges.

Street after street opened out to the side of the main road as they progressed, the traffic growing busier and more congested as they entered the town's main square. Filling the centre of the square, an elegant three-tiered fountain rose up, its waters sparkling in the sunlight. A low stone wall lined with benches and rose bushes surrounded the area. From the top of the fountain, a stream of water bubbled out, the overflow cascading down its sides into the middle tier. Lily pads laden with white flowers dotted the bottom pool. In between the lily pads golden fish darted back and forth. Idira stared, incredulous, her tummy aching with hunger. What kind of place was this, where fish were just for looking at and not eating?

On two sides of the square, in between some of the grandest houses Idira could ever have imagined, several shops with big glass windows displayed their wares of cheeses, meats and sweet and savoury breads. Two other shops sold clothing, one just for men and one for women. Idira caught her breath, the dress on display in the women's shop was made of pale yellow cloth, its neckline and bodice worked with creamy lace and ribbons. It was a dress for a fairy princess.

She caught Myra gazing at it, wistful. With Myra's waist length wavy blonde hair, sea-blue eyes, straight nose, full lips, nicely arching brows and smooth skin tanned from the sun, Idira could tell Myra would look very pretty in it. She wished her sister could have the dress, maybe then she might be nicer. Myra had been wearing the same old brown homespun dress for years, its fully let-out hem ragged and torn.

Out of the corner of her eye, Idira watched Myra surreptitiously trying to smooth the creases out of her stained and torn dress, her sister's cheeks darkening with shame. From behind Blackie's crate, Idira examined the other women, some of them followed by liveried servants carrying their wrapped purchases. Those women were wearing very nice dresses. Compared to all of them though, Myra was by far the most beautiful. After all her sister had had to go through with Papa, she deserved something nice. Maybe now she could marry Benny and he could buy her that dress. He had lots of silver. Idira would ask him next time she saw him.

The horses came to a halt as Borda waited for a glut of carts to clear. The shop beside Idira only had big leather chairs in it. A man sat in one of the chairs with a line of white foam on his jaw, another man used a long flat blade to take it away. Idira had never seen _that_ before. She glanced up at Papa, noticing his clean shaven face. Never once had she seen him shave. She had never even thought about it, she just thought that was how he looked. She glanced back into the barber shop, watching as the customer paid out a silver coin to the barber. A little spark of indignation ignited. So Papa had had money enough for that. Myra said one silver piece from Benny could buy them enough potatoes, carrots, flour and chicken feed for a week.

The carts cleared, and they moved on. To Idira's left, a massive open-fronted smithy looked out of place amongst all the grandeur. At least a dozen men laboured within, wearing nothing but breeches and leather aprons. Sooty sweat stained their muscled backs as they worked over the red hot coals, the ringing of their hammers against metal filling the air with the reassuring sound of industry.

Borda called to the horses, steering them round the fountain and through the chaos of wagons toward the opposite side of the square, facing the smithy. Women carrying baskets moved in little groups along the walkways, chattering amongst themselves, stopping to point at items on display in the windows. Near the fountain, a group of boys knelt playing some kind of game with little round stones, trying to knock their opponent's stones aside. Someone must have done something right, because four of them starting cheering and slapping each other's backs.

The scent of roasting meat pulled Idira's attention away from the boys. She turned just as the wagon rumbled past the open double doors of the town's main inn, the Weary Traveller. Groups of men and women sat at various tables, their platters overflowing with roasted meat and vegetables. Laughter spilled out into the square, mixed with the gentle strumming of a stringed instrument. Idira's mouth watered and her tummy growled, loud. She glanced at Myra, afraid her sister would scold her, but Myra seemed to have forgotten all about Idira. Though she tried to hide it, Idira could see Myra pressing her fists tight against her thin abdomen, something she did when her hunger pains were really bad. Only Papa seemed relaxed. Sitting like a king on the wagon's bench, he nodded at the townsmen as they passed by, acknowledging their respectful nods.

Borda slowed the horses, and pulled up in front of a massive stone townhouse three stories high. Idira tilted her head back, open-mouthed. It was very imposing. This couldn't be where they were going to live. He must just be stopping to rest the horses. She let her gaze wander, inspecting the adjoining buildings. All of them were built of stone. The central building was as wide as two townhouses and four stories high. A black and gold banner bearing a crest of crossed swords hung from the balcony of the second floor. The heavy material lifted in the wind and fell back against the stone balustrades with a sharp snap.

Borda jumped down and offered his hand to Myra. She took it and stepped down, dainty and ladylike. Idira had never seen Myra act like that before, not even with Benny.

"This'll be ye're home from now on. Mr VanCleef says ye're ta call on him when ye's have settled in. All o' ye's, even the little 'un." Borda nodded at the big townhouse with the rippling banner. "I reckon ye can find his house alright."

Papa stepped down from the wagon. He looked over their new home, unimpressed. "Aye, we'll be there shortly."

Borda reached up to help Idira down. She handed him Blackie first, and then let him lift her down onto the ground. She picked up Blackie's crate, and stared at the big carved door of the mansion in front of her. It couldn't be true. It had to be a dream.

Borda rubbed the back of his neck, eyeing the pathetic heap of their belongings strapped to the back of the wagon. "Ye'll find the house is already filled to the brim with fine furniture, so if ye prefer we can just store ye're belongings elsewhere."

Papa nodded. "That'll do well." He started up the stone steps to the front door.

"What about the chickens?" Idira blurted out.

Myra laughed, but this time, it was a pretty laugh, one Idira had never heard before.

"Idira, look around ye. Where're chickens goin' ta live in a house like that?"

Borda glanced at the chickens, the little stick in his mouth moving from one side to the other. "I reckon my brother could give 'em a good home, he's got hisself a little spread just outside of town. I can ask what you'd like for 'em?"

"Just take 'em," Papa said without turning around. "I never want ta be hearin' about chickens again." He lifted the latch. The heavy carved door swung open with a groan. He disappeared inside. Myra hurried up the steps after him, her ladylike behaviour forgotten in her eagerness to explore.

Idira sighed and followed them, her arms wrapped tight around Blackie's crate. At the top of the steps she waited while Borda released the brake on the wagon and eased the horses back out into the square. First her house, and now everything else was being taken away, even her seashell from her murloc friend, packed in one of the sacks. All she had left of her previous life was her homespun tunic and Blackie.

"Bye chickens," she whispered, tears filling her eyes. When she couldn't see the wagon anymore, she backed up, went inside and closed the big, heavy door.

* * *

Idira had only had enough time to find her room all the way up on the top floor and let Blackie out of the chicken crate before two girls no more than twice her age, wearing dark blue dresses covered with crisp white aprons walked into her room each hefting two buckets of hot water. Two lads followed after them, grunting as they wrestled a copper tub through the narrow doorway.

Lanira, Idira's new minder, swept into the room, her arms laden with fluffy, fresh towels. She eyed the labours of the serving girls as they filled the tub, her narrow, pinched face filled with disapproval. Her black hair had been pulled back into a bun so severe not one hair dared lay out of place. Idira guessed her minder was no more than ten years older than Myra, but she seemed a lot older, like an old woman who had never once smiled in her whole life. Lanira set the towels aside and crossed the room, her sharp eyes already betraying her anger about something, although Idira had no idea what. She took hold of Idira's arm and yanked her over so she could pull Idira's tunic up over her head, her movements a little too rough for Idira's liking.

"Nothing here a good scrub and a fresh dress won't fix," Lanira muttered to herself, as she tossed the tunic into the fireplace. Idira watched it succumb to the flames. That was her only piece of clothing. She wondered what she was supposed to wear now.

Lanira grabbed hold of Idira's chin and took a good long look at Idira's face. "Those eyes! How horrible. Never seen the like of it before. I suppose there's a hint of blue somewhere in there but still, what a strange, quiet child. For the love of the Light, say something, you have just moved into the second best house in all of Westfall. What's wrong with you, were you dropped on your head when you were a baby?"

"Hello?" Idira ventured, not knowing what else to say.

Lanira's hand slammed into Idira's mouth, hard. Idira blinked back her tears. It hurt a lot, she licked her lip and tasted blood.

"Think you're funny, do you?" Lanira scowled, her eyes narrow with dislike. "Your father told me to keep you on a tight leash. I can see why now, too clever for your own good, you are." She fell back onto her haunches and rubbed the back of her wrist across her forehead. "Oh why must I always get the problem cases? Just once, the Light could bless me with a nice normal child to mind."

Idira didn't say anything, but it appeared Lanira no longer minded her silence. She hustled her into the copper tub and scrubbed a lifetime's worth of grime from Idira's body and hair, complaining all the while, her ministrations rough and painful. When it was over, Idira sat before the fire, wrapped in a towel waiting for her combed out hair to dry while Lanira went to fetch something for Idira to wear. The serving girls came back and emptied the dirty bath water back into their buckets. They never looked at her or spoke to her. It was like she didn't even exist.

Alone once more Idira got up and looked around her room. It was really nice. It had a big window right under the house's front gable. From its vantage she could see the whole square and all the way past the roofs of the town to the surrounding countryside. In the distance, the glittering sparkles of the sea beckoned to her. She sighed, relieved. She could still see the sea.

The bed stood beside the window and had a high headboard and footboard, at least a half dozen thick cushions lay piled against the headboard. She lay down on the bed, it was so soft, it made her think of floating on a cloud. Urgent voices echoed up the stairwell, startling her. She slipped off the bed and hurried back to her place on the padded bench, afraid of being scolded. No one came. She looked around some more.

At the opposite end of the room a pretty dresser with an oval mirror faced the window, and beside it, a huge wardrobe with double doors. A thick woollen rug lay across the polished wooden floorboards in between the bed and the dresser. In between the bed and dresser stood the fireplace with its warming bench. And finally, tucked into the lower part of the gable, facing the footboard of the bed, a pair of padded chairs and a little table filled a nook. And that was it. The walls were painted pale blue, which offset the white door and marble fireplace. The bed cover was also blue as was the upholstery of the bench and chairs. Idira was glad, she liked blue, it reminded her of the sea and the sky. She was pretty sure she had been given the best room in the house. It was perfect. She could stay her for days with Blackie and just look out the window, watching the people going about their lives.

Footsteps rushed up the stairs and Lanira pushed in, her face even tighter than before. In her arms she carried a large box tied with a bright yellow bow.

"Hurry, you must get dressed. Your father is already waiting and ready to go."

Lanira pulled the dress from within its wrappings and shook it out. Apart from its soft pink colour, Idira didn't even have time to look at it before she was turned around and her hair tied into a loose bun. Lanira handed her a piece of clothing. Idira held it up, trying to make sense of it, was it a kind of cap? She put it on her head. Lanira made a noise of pure frustration, and mimed how to put it on.

"You can't go out without underpants on. How can you _not_ know what these are? I swear you will be the nerve of me."

Idira complied and put them on. They felt funny, but she guessed she would just have to get used to them now she lived in a big, fancy house. Next came the shift, soft as a feather, then the dress. She looked down as Lanira laced up the back. It had a wide ribbon sash around the waist two shades darker than the dress. She touched the ribbon, savouring its silky smoothness. Lanira caught Idira's smile, and her face softened just a touch.

"So it took a dress to get through to you. Good, at least you are not a total monster, although what Mr VanCleef will think about those eyes of yours will be another matter. You better be on your best behaviour with him. He doesn't suffer fools kindly." She tugged and straightened Idira's dress until she was satisfied, then bent down and rummaged through the box's wrappings until she found what she was looking for. Out came a pair of soft pink leather slippers.

Idira slid her feet into them. Just like the underwear they felt a little strange, but she liked the feeling too, it made her feel special. Important.

Lanira held out her hand. "Come, it's time."

Idira took her minder's hand, stumbling to keep up as they raced down the three flights of stairs to her father and sister who waited in the entrance hall. Lanira tipped her head to Papa and handed Idira over to Myra.

Idira gaped at her sister's transformation. Myra wore a dark red gown pulled tight around the waist and cut low in the front, so the curve of her breasts stood out. Her hair had been swept up into a complicated style and decorated with little white flowers. A necklace made of silver and littered with red gems cascaded from her throat to her breasts. It moved as she breathed.

"You look like a princess, a magical princess," Idira breathed. "Just wait until Benny sees you."

Myra smiled and nodded, her face so much softer and prettier now all the meanness had melted away. She lifted admiring eyes to Papa, who had exchanged his bloodstained tunic and breeches for gleaming black leather armour. His hair had been slicked back, and in his dark armour, wearing a pair of daggers on his hips, he looked quite forbidding and dangerous.

"It's because of Papa we have all this."

Papa turned and glared at Myra. "No, it's because of Mr VanCleef we have all this. I still have ta prove my worth ta him, an' I will. But if any o' us displeases him, all o' this will end. Who do ye think lived here afore us? Aye, that's right, nothin' is certain yet. So mind yerselves in there, and don' ye be trying to be clever wit' him."

Idira followed her father and sister out of the house, catching the curious looks cast in their direction as they walked to the big house. She stood up a little straighter, concentrating on not treading on the hem of her dress. Someone whistled at Myra. Papa stopped and glared around the square, searching for the offender, his fingers tightening around his daggers' hilts. The noise of the square died down. Silence fell.

A scuffle broke out at the edge of the blacksmith's, one of the smiths had got hold of a blonde haired lad, spindly, no more than fourteen. A blacksmith, three times the size of the boy, with fists as big as the rocks along the sea, punched the boy in the gut. He cried out, doubling over. The blacksmith looked back at Papa, waiting, ready to strike again. Papa stared at the lad, his eyes narrowed. The boy looked up, panting, his eyes wide and full of fear. Papa nodded and continued on his way.

The smith hit the boy once more, this time in the jaw, before the other let him go. The lad crumpled to the ground, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Idira glanced up at Myra. Her sister wasn't looking. She kept her eyes down, her hands clasped in front of her. Idira had never seen Myra so quiet. She wanted her real sister back, the one she knew and feared a little. Just to have one thing the same would be nice.

Papa approached the imposing door of the big house. It opened in total silence. Her father and sister entered. Idira hurried to catch up. A man wearing black leather armour, the same as Papa's, stood just inside the door. He nodded at Papa, respectful. As the door closed behind them, Idira glanced back at the lad still huddled into himself on the dirt floor of the smithy and realised she knew nothing about her Papa.

They were led through the house and out into a central courtyard. In the middle, two men sparred with swords, the sunlight glinting off their weapons. One of them, wearing black and gold leather armour, wielded two swords. His long black hair hung down to his shoulders, giving him a roguish look. He looked a little younger than Papa, but he was much more handsome with his chiselled features, athletic build, and refined elegance. He fought with precision and ease. He glanced up at their arrival and halted his work. His training partner bowed and left.

Placing his swords back into their scabbards, he moved towards them, his movements reminding Idira of a cat's. He was nothing like Borda, Jim, Fence or Papa. VanCleef was like a prince from a fairy tale. She wondered why he would be here among such rough people when he looked like he belonged in a palace.

He nodded at Papa, and reached out to take Myra's hand. He lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

"Well, well, well, Jac," he said, soft, his eyes eating up Myra, making Idira feel uncomfortable. Even Benny never looked at Myra like that. "You weren't lying when you said your daughter would please me. She pleases me very well. Very well indeed. You may go. I will send for you tomorrow."

Myra turned to look at Papa, fearful, but he was already walking away, his back to her. Idira didn't know what to do. She couldn't just leave her sister alone with that man who looked like he was going to do bad things to Myra, the kind of things Benny wouldn't approve of.

"Off you go, little one," VanCleef murmured, without taking his eyes off Myra, "your sister is in good hands. I promise I won't hurt her."

"Myra?" Idira felt tears burning in her eyes. Everything was getting scary. Couldn't they just go home now, with the chickens and Blackie and forget about all this? She didn't mind being hungry, after all.

Myra swallowed and looked down at Idira. She forced a smile. "Go on, Idira. Go wit' Papa."

Idira backed away and slipped into the house. The last thing she heard was the tearing of Myra's beautiful dress.


	4. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER 3**

* * *

Idira woke to voices shouting. For a heartbeat she didn't know where she was. She looked around the shadowed room, disoriented. She sat up, her eyes drawn to the huge window and the distant sea, black dark, shifting and uneasy under a low moon, waiting for the sun to breach the horizon.

The shouts rose up again, muted by distance. Idira pushed back the warm quilts and slipped out of the bed. Sometime in the night, Blackie had left her hiding place to curl up by the bed's footboard. Idira stopped to pet her, listening to the raised voices coming from far below. Clad only in her nightdress, she opened her door and peered out into the hall. The flickering light of a lamp on the landing below kept the worst of the shadows at bay. She crept down the stairs and leaned over the banister. The voices had lowered. Idira could only make out one word. Benny.

Alarmed, she broached the next flight of stairs, careful not to make the polished boards creak. At the bottom, she paused to make sure no one was around before padding across the thick carpets of the vast entrance hall to the front reception room. The grand room's glazed double doors stood slightly ajar. She peeked in. Papa was already dressed for the day in his black leather armour. He stood with his back to the big marble fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest.

Close by, Myra perched on one of the pretty pieces of furniture, a little upholstered sofa done in shiny green material. She clutched her ruined dress closed over her breasts. All the little flowers in her hair were gone and her blonde tresses hung loose, tangled and messy.

"Papa, please. I love Benny."

Papa glared at Myra, who quailed under his severe, hateful look. He jerked his head in the direction of the big house.

"Did he hurt ye?"

"No . . . but—"

"There is no 'but'. It's time ye learned about life. Powerful men like VanCleef allus gets what they want and ye better get yer head around acceptin' it. Benny'll accept it, ye can count on it."

Myra stood up, outraged. "That man slept with me, witout so much as a by yer leave! He took what belongs ta Benny, and ye say Benny'll jus' accept it?" She stood there, trembling, tears burning in her eyes and spat. "If ye won't defend me, Benny will. He'll kill 'im."

Papa laughed, a short, harsh sound. "Wimmen, and ye're wild expectations, ye're a copper a dozen till us. If VanCleef wants ye, Benny'll give ye up ta him afore ye can say Westfall."

Myra blinked, taken aback. She sank back down onto the sofa, shaking her head. "No. I don' believe ye. Ever since Mama died, ye've changed. Ye wouldna' say such things if Mama was still here."

Papa clenched his jaw at the mention of Mama. He let out deep breath, like he was trying to find patience. "Times change Myra. VanCleef asked me about ye, awhile back. Benny, the fool, had been braggin' he had the best lookin' girl in Westfall. I tried ta divert VanCleef but ye'll find he's not the kind ye can divert." He eyed her dishevelled hair, and torn gown. "Ye're his now Myra, best ye get yer head round it, sooner rather than later, fer all our sakes."

"And what's that supposed ta mean?" Myra snapped, like a wounded animal.

Papa knelt in front of Myra and took hold of her chin, she fought him, but he held her firm, jerking her face back to his. He looked at her with his hard eyes. "It means Benny's been sent ta the borders o' Elwynn ta patrol. He's been told what's what. Ye're VanCleef's now. Best ye get ta likin' it. So long as I'm Enforcer, ye ain't never goin' ta see Benny again."

Myra cried out, tears bursting from her eyes. Papa let her go and stood up, straightening his tunic, looking at her with eyes as cold as a fish.

"I'm leavin' fer a fortnight to gather forces in Redridge, but ye mark me words, VanCleef's men'll be keepin' an eye on ye, so don't ye be trying anything funny. If VanCleef sends for ye, ye'll go ta him, looking as pretty as a princess, ye hear me?"

Myra didn't answer. He raised his leather clad hand high and hit her hard across the face. She flinched and bit back a cry.

"Ye hear me wench?" he bellowed.

She nodded, squirming to get away from him.

He turned and strode towards the glass doors, his booted feet loud on the wooden floorboards. Idira had just enough time to scurry away and hide behind a potted plant. She peered at him from between the plant's leaves as he went out the big front door. He yanked on the handle and the door slammed shut behind him, making the framed portraits on the walls rattle.

She crept back to the front room. Myra had lain down face first on the sofa, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed, deep, heart wrenching cries. Idira went to get her sister a cup of water, it took a long time to find the kitchens, then a cup, and finally a jug of water, but she managed. She came back and found her sister sitting up, staring at nothing, her rent dress hanging open, her full breasts exposed, a massive bruise had begun to purple the side of her face where Papa had struck her. Idira held up the cup.

"Want some water?"

Her sister nodded. Idira brought it to her and waited while she drank. Myra wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, flinching when she touched her injured jaw. Idira sat down beside Myra, and took her sister's hand.

"I'll help you," she said.

Myra scoffed but didn't pull her hand away. "How?"

Idira shrugged. "I don't know. If Benny comes ta town I can take a message ta him for ye."

Myra turned and looked at Idira for what felt like the first time in Idira's life. Idira bit her lip and waited. Myra's face softened. "Ye're allus so good. Even when I'm bad to ye, ye don' do bad back. Why?"

Idira shrugged again. "Ye're all I have. Like a Mama. Anyway Papa gives ye enough trouble as it is."

Myra's face crumpled and she started to cry again. "Mama would hate me fer how I've treated ye. Afore she died, I used ta be nice, Papa used ta be nice, too. Well, nicer'n now anyway. Everything went bad when . . . " She shook her head and looked in the direction of VanCleef's house. She sniffed. "Maybe I'm gettin' what I deserve, fer all my badness."

Idira thought about the black haired man in his fancy armour and how deadly he looked as he used his two swords. He had looked at Myra like he was going to eat her with his eyes.

"Are ye going ta marry that man, instead of Benny?"

A fat tear rolled down Myra's face and splashed onto the top of her breast. She laughed, brittle. "I don't think he's the marryin' type. Especially not ta someone like me."

"Why not?"

Myra shook her head. "Ach ye should see that house, and the way people act around him. He's rich, smart and powerful. I'm jus' a poor farm girl who happened ta take his fancy."

Idira nestled closer, savouring the sudden intimacy of her sister's company.

"What's he like, really?" she asked, her curiosity overcoming her.

Myra lifted an eyebrow as she considered the question. "Well, apart from ripping me dress open and carrying me off ta his bed without the askin' o' it, he wasn't so bad, as men go I suppose. He said some new things would be delivered today, ta make up fer my ruined dress." She plucked at the torn material, shy. "He knew what he was doin', better than Benny. I won't lie, some of it was quite nice. Not all o' it, mind, but some."

Idira didn't say anything. A couple of months before she had seen Benny and Myra on the beach behind some rocks, with Benny on top of Myra, moving up and down, his mouth hanging open and making a stupid looking face. Idira had laughed all the way back to the house. So that was what they did when they went 'walking'. Being a grown up was strange, saying one thing and doing something else. Walking was walking, not _that_ whatever that was. She tried to imagine the elegant man from yesterday looking like that, she couldn't.

"Did he make a funny face?" Idira demonstrated.

Myra snorted and giggled a little, despite herself. "How d'ye know about that?"

"I saw ye and Benny once down at the beach. He looked like that."

Myra blushed a little under her bruise. "VanCleef's a man full grown, near twice me age. He's had more time'n Benny ta practice. No faces." A fresh tear leaked out, and slid down, silent.

Idira leaned her head against Myra's shoulder and looked at the opulent dark green curtains framing the floor-to-ceiling windows. In the window arches above the closed shutters, Idira watched as a new day dawned, the sky's hues shifting from a colourless grey-blue to a deep pink. Within the house the sound of servants cleaning out fireplaces, opening shutters and scrubbing the floors drifted into the room. A maid came in. Her eyes widened at the sight of Myra before she bowed and backed away, pulling the doors closed behind her, quiet.

"He tol' me he loved me," Myra murmured.

Idira kept looking at the sky, watching the colours change. This was her favourite part of the day. "Benny did?"

Myra didn't answer.

"VanCleef?" Idira asked without thinking. She regretted it immediately, and braced herself for a smack.

"Yes," her sister whispered.

Idira looked at Myra, surprised. "Has Benny never—even after," she made the face again, "that?"

Myra shook her head, stricken, her eyes bright with tears once more. "I allus wanted him to. He used ta laugh an say real men don' say things like that."

Idira kept her mouth shut, she knew what her sister was thinking. VanCleef was a real man and he had said it, which meant if Benny didn't say it, maybe he never loved her sister after all. She took her sister's hand and just held it while her sister cried until she couldn't cry any more.

* * *

A pounding came to the front door. Idira sat up, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Outside, the sun was up, but only just. Shouts came from the entrance hall, escalating as the pounding at the door increased, a heavy boom made her ears ring. The sound of fighting. Another boom. Silence fell. The double doors burst open. Benny rushed in wild-eyed and panting, carrying something Idira had never seen before, like a metal tube. One end of it smoked. He didn't look stupid now, he look big and dangerous. Myra sat up, her face all puffy from crying. She made a little sound, something between a cry and a sob, her hands moving over her dress, pulling the pieces together once more.

He looked her over, his expression anguished. "Ye're coming wit' me. He'll not have ye. I'll die first."

Hope bloomed in Myra's eyes. She ran to him. He caught her with one arm and held her against him, possessive, eyeing the big bruise on her face.

"Did he do this to ye?" he asked, his voice as hard as rocks.

Myra shook her head, clinging to him, tears sliding free, staining her face even more. She hiccupped.

"No. Papa did it."

Benny's eyes narrowed to slivers. "I'll kill the bastard."

"Oh, I don't think so, Mr Blaanco."

VanCleef strolled into the room, wearing only a pair of dark leather breeches, boots and a white shirt. The ties of his shirt hung open. Idira glimpsed sleek, defined muscles. He didn't have any weapons, at least none Idira could see. Benny tightened his hold on Myra and held the metal thing up, pointing it at VanCleef's face.

VanCleef glanced at the thing, unimpressed. "You aren't going to shoot me, we both know that."

He walked around the room, his back to Benny, looking at the fine things on display as if he had just popped around for a visit. Idira watched him, wary. He smelled like danger. He glanced over his shoulder.

"You see, Benny, Jac Northshire is really rather useful to me. A brute, to be sure, but useful all the same." He turned and looked over the pair, locked in their desperate, defiant embrace. He nodded, a look of respect flickering over his features. "I admire you Benny, you aren't going to give up your woman without a fight. I like that." He plucked a piece of fruit from a bowl on the table and popped it into his mouth. He wandered around some more, chewing, taking his time. When he was done, he propped his booted foot up onto one of the fine chairs and rested his elbow on his knee.

"However, I am also not going to give up Ms Northshire without a fight. Here's what I propose: a duel. Whoever yields, loses Myra. You may choose the weapons."

"Fists," Benny said without hesitation. Idira glanced at VanCleef, hoping to see a reaction. Benny had often bragged he had never been beaten in a fist fight, not even when it was three against one. Looking at Benny's solid bulk and massive fists, she could believe it. There was no way VanCleef was going to beat Benny in a fist fight.

VanCleef smiled. He looked pleased. Idira had to admit he was very nice to look at when he smiled, although she couldn't see what there was to smile about, he had lost Myra for sure.

"Let's finish this then, shall we? Follow me."

He strode past Idira. He even smelled expensive.

Myra moved out of Benny's embrace. VanCleef slowed, noticing her battered face. His eyes darkened.

"Did Jac do this to you?" he asked, his voice low.

Myra nodded, her eyes downcast.

VanCleef didn't say anything, but Idira could tell by the way his posture stiffened just a little he was very angry. He swept out of the house and down the steps, silent, like a cat.

Benny turned to Myra and pressed his lips against hers, gentle since she was sore.

"Cover yerself and come wit' me. I can't lose. I want ye ta see him yield ta me."

He found a cloak for Myra and they left. Idira hesitated for a moment, then hurried after them. No one seemed interested in her anyway. She skirted the little groups of servants huddled around the injured in the front hallway, and ran out after her sister and Benny. The town was still only just waking up, but the few who were about gaped at the sight of them. They must have looked strange going after VanCleef with Benny still holding that metal thing in his hand and Myra trailing after him, holding her cloak tight around her, her face all smeared with cosmetics and half covered in a big ugly bruise, followed by a little girl in her nightdress and bare feet. Idira would have laughed if things did not feel so terrible.

She looked up at Benny as he went into the big house, his face hard and mean looking. He wasn't going to be nice. He was going to be scary. Idira didn't want to see it, she turned to go back. Myra caught her hand. She held it so tight, Idira's eyes watered.

Once more they were led through the house and into the central courtyard, where this whole mess had begun. Idira felt a bad feeling well up inside her. Benny wasn't going to win. She wanted to be wrong, but she could _see_ it. She could see Benny falling. She shook her head, trying to make the image in her mind go away. But it wouldn't stop. She rubbed at her eyes, frantic, trying to clear her vision.

"What's wrong with her?" Idira sensed someone kneeling in front of her. They took her chin in their hand. She smelled the scent of VanCleef. She couldn't see anything except that same image over and over. She started to cry, panicking.

"Look at her eyes, they're glowing," he said, intrigued.

"Please make it stop," Idira cried, "I don't want ta see it."

"See what?"

"I don't want ta see Benny losing ta ye."

"How can you—" VanCleef slammed into her sending her sprawling. Myra's hands came to her, dragging her away from the commotion.

"What's happening?" Idira screamed, clawing at Myra's cloak, blind but for the image playing in her mind.

"Benny started the fight while VanCleef was lookin' at ye," Myra said as she pulled Idira tighter against her.

The sound of violence filled Idira's ears. She tugged on Myra's cloak, begging her to tell her something, anything, but Myra wouldn't answer. Her breathing turned shallow, matching the heavy pants of the two men. The dull thud of fists hitting flesh and bone punctuated the quiet. A crash at the opposite end of the courtyard, then another crash, louder this time. One of the men yelled, furious, but Idira couldn't tell who it was. Running feet, silence, someone must have leapt into the air. A heavy thud. Myra screamed. Idira blinked. Benny lay on the ground just as she had seen in her mind. VanCleef stepped over Benny, straddling him. His fists bloody, he lifted Benny up by his collar.

"Yield," he spat. "Or my next blow will be a killing one for harming the little one, you devious cheating bastard."

Blood bubbled out of Benny's mouth, his face had been so badly beaten, he was almost unrecognisable. He stared at VanCleef, filled with hate, and said nothing, defiant.

"Yield!" VanCleef bellowed.

Benny spat at him. A bloody gob splattered against VanCleef's mouth.

VanCleef let go of Benny's collar. Benny's head hit the flagged stones with a smack. His eyes cold, VanCleef wiped the back of hand against his mouth and went to one of the weapon tables still left intact. He picked up a stiletto and strode back to Benny, spinning the blade round, preparing to strike.

Myra cried out and raced across the courtyard, putting herself between them, her arms spread wide. Her cloak fell open, exposing her breasts once more. They heaved up and down, following her ragged breaths. She looked like a banshee with her torn gown, wild eyes and tangled hair.

"He yields!" she screamed. "He yields! Ye have won me. Please don' kill him, I beg ye." She fell to her knees, overcome. "Please . . . if ye love me, don' kill him."

VanCleef stopped, rigid, his fingers tight around the stiletto's grip. Benny groaned and blacked out. VanCleef's lips twisted, and Idira knew Benny had made an enemy for life. Benny shouldn't have cheated, that was a bad thing to do.

VanCleef threw the stiletto aside, its clatter loud and jagged as it ricocheted against the stone flags. He went to Myra and pulled her to her feet, yanking her cloak off, then her dress, and finally her shift until she stood naked before him, surrounded by a puddle of clothing. Idira gaped. Was he going to 'walk' with Myra right now? Idira stood rooted to the spot, afraid to move. VanCleef walked around Myra surveying her, his eyes glittering, dangerous.

He took hold of her shoulders and kissed her, hard, like he was angry. Myra let him, even as her tears for Benny slid down her face. VanCleef pulled back, breathing hard, the muscles of his chest rising and falling, straining against the material of his shirt.

"Your things will be brought here," he said, his voice hard. "This is your home now. No one is ever going to hit you again. Ever." He glanced at Idira. "The little one stays, too." He let Myra go. She staggered, losing her balance. Without looking back, he went into the house. A door slammed. Silence fell.

Shaking, Myra picked up the cloak and pulled it around her shoulders. She knelt beside Benny and reached out to him, whispering his name.

Footsteps approached. Two of VanCleef's leather-clad men made their way across the courtyard and put themselves between her and Benny. Myra fell back onto her haunches, watching, helpless as they hefted Benny between them and hauled him toward the back of the house.

His head lolling, Benny's feet dragged behind him, banging against the stone steps up from the courtyard. It looked like it hurt. The little group disappeared into the house's depths. Another door slammed. The men returned and began the work of removing the broken tables and collecting up the scattered daggers, knives, and stilettos, neither of them looking at Myra.

Idira went to Myra and knelt beside her. Myra stared at the place where Benny had last been, her whole body quaking. Not knowing what else to do, Idira collected up Myra's clothes and wadded them into a ball. A woman appeared at the edge of the courtyard. Idira glanced up. Lanira. Idira shrank back against Myra. Not her. Not now.

Lanira hastened over to them, nervous and skittish, nothing at all like the dominant, bossy woman Idira had come to dislike. Lanira's hands fluttered together. She wrung them, fretting.

"Please," she whispered, glancing at the two men setting a table upright. "Come with me, you can't stay here. I must remove you, he is coming back with his men, to practice."

Myra didn't look at her, Idira wasn't even sure if Myra knew Lanira was there.

A door slammed in the house again, the footsteps of a dozen men approached. Lanira jumped, her eyes darting to the doorway.

"Idira," she gestured, frantic, "help me."

Lanira crouched down and hoisted Myra to her feet. Still holding Myra's clothes, Idira wrapped her arm around Myra's thin hips and followed Lanira up the steps out of the courtyard. They stumbled into the shadows of the house just as VanCleef returned, wearing his armour. A maid rushed over to take Idira's place, her face full of pity. They went up the grand curving staircase and down a wide hallway into a sumptuous room, its high-ceilinged opulence far too overwhelming for Idira's mind to comprehend—at least not while her sister sat slumped on the floor, staring at her hands, whispering to herself.

"She's in shock, poor thing," Lanira muttered as she hurried to the floor-to-ceiling windows and pulled the thick burgundy curtains closed. "Just look at the state of her."

She sent for hot water. Maids came and went, quiet and discreet. Behind a wooden folding screen, one of the maids bathed Myra in a big ceramic tub. Beautiful smells emanated from behind the screen, complex scents Idira didn't know how to describe. All she knew was the scent of the sky, the land and the sea, she had no idea there could be so much more. A delivery arrived with a card attached to an enormous box, tied closed with a silky yellow ribbon.

Lanira read the card.

"Fools," she sneered as she tossed the card aside. "If the merchants of Moonbrook think it'll only take a few new frocks bought in Stormwind for VanCleef to be satisfied with their donation to the Brotherhood's cause, they'll see soon enough just what will be expected of them."

Lanira set the box on the bed, it was too big to go anywhere else. Curious, Idira got up onto the bed and pulled the ribbon away. She slid the lid off. Inside, four beautiful new gowns lay wrapped in folds of pale pink and green tissue paper.

She looked up and caught Lanira watching her. A smile tickled the corners of her minder's downturned mouth. "You don't say much, but one thing's certain, you do love the pretty things, don't you?"

Idira nodded, her attention drawn back to the box with its sumptuous fabrics peeking out between the soft paper. She ran her fingers over the material, reverent, awed to touch something from the fairytale city of Stormwind, where the good Queen Tiffin used to live.

"Come then." Lanira bustled around to the other side of the bed, and set the box's lid against the wall. "You can make yourself useful. Get those gowns out before they wrinkle up. Lay them out on the bed nice and neat so Ms Northshire can choose which one she wants to wear today."

Idira did as she was told, filled with delight to be given such a great responsibility. Myra came out from behind the screen wrapped in a towel, her eyes smudged with dark shadows. Idira showed her sister the new dresses, by Myra just looked at them, expressionless and said nothing. She went to one of the chairs, sat down and closed her eyes.

Lanira's lips thinned, but she didn't say anything. She clapped her hands and pointed at the lavender gown, its bodice and hem embroidered with little flowers, wrought in silver thread. Myra's attendants came forward and helped her to her feet. They dressed her in total silence under Lanira's watchful, critical eye. When they were done, Lanira put fresh colour on Myra's lips and eyelids, tutting to herself over the bruise. She sent for a cold steak and gave Idira the task of holding the slab of meat against Myra's purpled cheekbone and jaw. Lanira went to the fireplace,wrapped a cloth around her hand and pulled a metal instrument from a rack in the fireplace. Idira watched, fascinated, as Lanira began the long work of curling Myra's hair.

"Well Idira, what do you think of our new home?" Lanira asked as she twirled a tress of Myra's hair free from the iron. Idira switched the steak from one hand to another, it was hard work to hold the thick slice of meat up for so long.

Idira squinted up at Lanira. "I miss Blackie."

"Your cat?"

Idira nodded. She bit her lip, worrying. Blackie was probably hungry by now without anyone to bring her food.

"You are a funny thing. Here you are under VanCleef's wing, living in privilege and all you care about is your farm cat."

Idira looked down at her bare feet and scuffed them against the thick burgundy rug. Poor Blackie. She had only been able to have one day of a nice life.

"You are lucky Mr VanCleef is partial to cats," Lanira continued, as she freed another curling tress. "I am certain he won't mind if I have your cat brought to you."

Idira smiled, pleased. She caught Myra looking at her, her eyes hollow and bleak.

"I wish I was you," she whispered, and began to cry again.

* * *

Despite Lanira's desperate attempts to soothe her, Myra was still grieving when the hour of the evening meal drew near. Idira's things had been brought round—what little she had—and Blackie now prowled around a new room, three times the size of the previous one. Idira's new room wasn't blue, but pale pink and white. Otherwise it was much the same as her old room, except everything in it was bigger, grander and more ornate. Her bed had four posts and a pink canopy over it. Idira loved it. She could pretend her bed was a boat, and her room the sea.

Dressed in her pink dress and slippers, a maid brought her back to Myra's room. Idira went in and found Lanira holding a glass filled with a ruby red liquid up to Myra's mouth. Myra shook her head and pushed it away.

"Drink," Lanira pleaded, her face tight with anxiety, "you must calm down, the Master will not put up with your weeping for much longer. Please, calm yourself and go to dinner."

Myra ignored her, her tears slipping silent down her face and onto her gown, staining it.

Exasperated, Lanira stood up and rubbed her hand across her forehead. A thought must have struck her because she bent down and wagged her finger in front of Myra. "You must pull yourself together. If you continue like this, the Master will turn you out and you will have no one. Jac will turn his back on you, and so will everyone else, you won't have a friend in all of Westfall."

"Benny will—"

Lanira's hand clamped over Myra's mouth. "You hush your mouth, you will never say his name again. He's gone, you hear me. Gone. The Master had the lad on a wagon out of Moonbrook before he even came to. I heard he's been sent to your father in Redridge. It's over. Jac will come down hard on him, you can count on it."

Myra pushed Lanira's hand away. "I hate ye," she spat. "Ye're just another one o' VanCleef's lackeys. All ye care about is his wealth and power, fawnin' over him as ye scrabble around trying ta catch his leavings. I had love, real love. My man loved me. I don't care what anyone says. He loved me, and I loved him."

Lanira held the glass up in front of Myra. The older woman's eyes flashed, dangerous. "Then be smart, and bide your time in luxury. Maybe one day all of this will come to nothing. But for now, you have to play by his rules. Don't be a fool. Survive."

Myra glared at Lanira for a long time. Idira held her breath, waiting. She hoped Myra would listen to Lanira, even if the woman was sharp around the edges, she made sense. They didn't have to live with Papa anymore, VanCleef had promised Myra she would never be hit again. Blackie was safe. _Please Myra_ , she begged, silent, _drink the wine._

Myra took the glass, and emptied it. She handed it back to Lanira.

"More."

Lanira refilled it, and Myra drank all of that, too. She swayed a little, quieting as the wine took its toll on her.

Hurrying to fix her ruined cosmetics, Lanira tidied Myra up as best she could. A knock came to the door. Before anyone could open it, VanCleef walked in, wearing tight fitting black breeches, soft leather boots that went over his knees and a black shirt, open at the throat. A red silk scarf encircled his neck. He looked sleek and elegant. Idira tried not stare, but there was something about him that made her want to look at him. Somehow his presence filled up the whole room.

His eyes went straight to Myra, who despite Lanira's frantic efforts, wilted in her gown, pathetic after a day spent in grief. His jaw clenched.

"Leave us," he said.

Stricken, Lanira bobbed her head and curtseyed. She took Idira's hand as she passed by.

"The child stays," he ordered, his eyes still on Myra.

Idira looked at Lanira, frightened. She didn't want to stay. Lanira shook her head, her eyes filled with warning. She shook off Idira's hand and left, her expression so taut her face looked as if it would crack if someone touched it.

The door closed behind her. VanCleef drew a deep breath and pulled a chair towards him. He turned its back around and straddled the seat in front of Myra, his hands on his knees.

"Look at me," he said, his voice much softer than before. Myra lifted her eyes to his, wary.

He touched her bruised jaw. "I can't promise I won't ruin more of your dresses, but I will never hit you, ever. And if anyone dares to lay a hand on you from this point forward, I will kill them myself. I swear it."

Myra didn't say anything. A fresh tear slipped free.

"He doesn't deserve you," VanCleef murmured as he brushed away her tear. He sighed. "But I understand. You need time. You will only hate me if I force you. I do not want your hate, I want your love."

He stood up and put the chair back exactly where he had taken it from. He turned back to her.

"So here is what I propose, you have six months to live here with me, enjoying everything I can offer you. Rank, prestige, wealth, protection. At the end, precisely six months from tonight, I will be waiting in my rooms. If you do not come to me willingly by the stroke of midnight, you and your sister will have to leave to find your own way in Westfall."

Myra looked up, hope filling her eyes.

"Ah you are an easy book to read," he smiled, though it was not unkind. "You hope to return to Benny? Well, you could, but perhaps you might want to know how and why you ended up here with me." He paused, to make sure he had her full attention. "Benny lost you to me in a game of cards."

Myra went so pale, even her bruise faded away. She clutched at the seat of her chair, swaying. VanCleef caught her as she fell and carried her to the bed. He laid her down with such gentleness it was hard to believe this was the same man who had almost killed Benny. He poured her a cup of water and helped her to sip.

Idira moved closer to the bed, watching him. He looked at Myra, his expression soft and tender. He brushed a lock of hair from her cheek.

"I didn't plan for this, lovely. I had only thought to claim my winnings and send you home, but you have captured my heart. There is none to equal you, not even in the palace of Stormwind."

Silence fell, as Myra digested his words. She looked up and met his eyes. He smiled and touched his fingertips to her lips.

"But," Idira blurted, interrupting, "when we came here yesterday, why did ye say ta Papa he didn't lie when he told ye Myra would please ye if Benny was the one who lost her?"

Myra bolted upright and pulled herself away from VanCleef, her eyes sharpening, filling with suspicion.

VanCleef nodded. He moved around the bed and crouched down in front of Idira, his leather boots creaking. He took hold of her chin and examined her face, turning it from side to side, his calloused fingers gentle.

"Well aren't you the clever one. So quiet and observant. I like you, even if your question _has_ annoyed me." He stood up again and returned to Myra. A look of discomfort slid across his face. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked at the wall, staring at something only he could see. "However," he continued, his voice turning cold, "perhaps some questions are better left unasked."

Myra pulled her knees up to her chest, defensive. "No. I want the truth."

He glanced at her, his expression softening anew. "You have suffered enough today, I would not hurt you more."

"Tell me. Please," she whispered, even as her fingers tightened on the folds of her dress, betraying her apprehension.

VanCleef shook his head, resigned. "Very well. Your father lost you first, over a trivial stake. A handful of silver coins. Benny tried to win you back, the stake if he lost being his allegiance to me for the rest of his life. He lost, as you already know. That makes you mine twice over. I'm sure you can understand how there is now no possibility for Benny to be with you again, now or six months from now. I would kill him, of course."

Myra slumped, her back against the headboard. Idira took a small step backward. So here was the man Lanira feared. She wondered if he was always like this, complicated and clever, and always used to winning. She wished she had kept her mouth shut, it would have been easier if Myra had only known the first version of VanCleef's explanation.

He poured himself a glass of wine, sipping as he paced back and forth at the end of the bed. "But let us move onto more pleasant matters. I should like your permission to have Idira schooled, to learn to read and write, and for both of you to have elocution lessons. Your quaint provincial dialect only serves to alienate you here."

Myra's expression had gone blank, she wasn't listening anymore. She was going to cry again, Idira could tell. She climbed up onto the bed beside her sister and took her hand.

"Myra, can I learn ta read and write please, and ta speak better?" Idira prodded.

Myra started out of her thoughts. She glanced at Idira, vague and nodded.

"Good, that's settled then." VanCleef set his wineglass aside. "So it's agreed, at the end of six months you will give me your decision." He brought Myra's hand to his lips and whispered, "You are, of course, always welcome to come to me sooner. I shall be longing for you until then."

Myra nodded again, numb, his poetic words sliding off her, useless.

He went to the door, and looked back at them, huddled together on the bed, he shook his head. "I can make you so very happy Myra, if only you'll let me. Please, let me."

He didn't wait for her reply. When he was gone Myra cried until she threw up, the red wine she had drunk ruining the beautiful white bed cover. Lanira came in and flapped and scolded, ordering the maids around and cursing the day she had been born.

Idira slipped away and left the chaos. Hungry, she wandered into the deserted kitchen in search of food. All of its surfaces had been cleared and scrubbed down for the night. Within the fireplace, a banked fire glowed under its heap of slack. On the hearth lay a basket padded with a red blanket. Two cats lay curled up together in it, sleeping. In the middle of the room, a massive wooden table dominated the space. Three sets of candelabra filled the table's length. Each burned with a dozen sweet smelling candles, yet even their light couldn't reach all the corners of the vast room.

Set on a platter under a glass dome, a roasted haunch of meat rested on the table. Idira's mouth watered. It looked like boar meat, the same as she had had last night. She went to it and hefted the dome away. She picked up a slice and tore bite-size pieces from it, filling her mouth until her cheeks puffed out.

A door opened. VanCleef came in, followed by two of his henchmen. He stopped when he saw Idira. He made a gesture. Without a word, his men disappeared. Idira stared, mid-chew. They had just vanished, right in front of her eyes. She turned around searching for them, the skin on the back of her neck prickling.

VanCleef went to a cupboard and pulled out two plates. Rummaging in several other cupboards he filled the platters with slabs of cheese, bread and meats. He put the two plates on the table and sat, patting the bench beside him.

"Come, eat."

Hunger made her go to him. She climbed over the bench, her legs hanging down, her feet not touching the floor. She picked up a piece of meat on her platter. It was white and a little greasy. She ate it, it tasted good. She looked up at VanCleef and smiled.

He smiled at her, his eyes kind. "You like chicken then do you?"

She stopped chewing. Not the chickens, they were her friends. She forced herself to swallow the meat, guilt overwhelming her. She reached for a piece of cheese, that was safe. She nibbled on it, watching him as he ate with his knife, spearing pieces and sliding them into his mouth without cutting himself on the sharp blade. It looked dangerous.

"Is it true?" she asked.

VanCleef put his knife down and turned to her, curious. "Is what true?"

She picked at the cheese, breaking it into little pieces. "Did Papa really lose Myra ta ye in a card game?"

He lifted a brow. "Yes."

"Well, why did ye let him bet her? Ye could have said no."

VanCleef looked at her in a funny way, then answered. "Because I'm a man, and I wanted her."

"Oh."

"You think I'm a bad man, don't you?"

Idira shrugged. "Ye seem bad, and ye look a little bad, but I think ye can be nice too. All I know is ye made Myra cry until she puked. So far ye've been nice ta me, though."

VanCleef didn't say anything for a long time. He just sat there, fiddling with his knife, its blade catching in the light of the candles. He put the knife aside.

"I'm not a bad man, I'm just trying to right a wrong. I do love your sister. I fell in love with her the moment I looked at her."

Idira looked up at him, he seemed sincere. "But ye ruined her pretty dress. She never had one like that before."

He looked a little embarrassed. "Well, I do that sometimes, it's something I like to do. When you grow up, you'll understand. Sometimes women like it, too. Myra unfortunately, did not." He cleared his throat and rubbed his palms against his thighs. "So, it seems you can see the future with those violet eyes of yours. You saw it today, didn't you?"

Idira half-shrugged, she didn't want to talk about it. It was scary.

He picked up his knife and began eating once more. "We can talk about it later," he said between bites, "we've had enough excitement for one day, don't you think?"

Idira shoved a piece of bread into her mouth so she wouldn't have to answer, but he didn't say anything more anyway. They ate in companionable silence until she couldn't eat another bite. She made a little pile of boar meat on her plate for Blackie and shuffled off the bench.

"Well, bye."

"Bye," he said, a soft smile hovering on his lips. "Sleep well, little one."

As she went out the door, she heard him say, quiet. "Please don't think I'm a bad man."

She ran up the stairs to her room and fed Blackie on the bed, revelling in the sudden decadence of her life. That night she dreamed of Myra, and Benny, and Papa and VanCleef. All the events of the previous two days jumbling together, messy and disorganised.

The dream changed and became vivid, as clear as waking life. She found herself standing on a balcony in a beautiful floating city, it was magical, like a fairytale. A handsome man, someone she had never seen before, stood before her, his grey eyes looking at her the way VanCleef's looked at Myra, only when she looked down at herself, she wasn't a little girl anymore but a grown woman, wearing a plain blue dress.

She woke up, her heart pounding. It was the middle of the night. Her bedroom glowed, soft, the colour of violet. It looked pretty, and terrifying.

She pulled Blackie up close, seeking comfort. Her future. She had seen her future. She was certain of it.

After a little while, the violet light faded and the room grew dark once more. With Blackie purring beside her, Idira thought about the strange city and the enigmatic man from her dream, his eyes the colour of polished steel. She found herself wishing the time would hurry up and pass, so she could grow up and meet him, the man with the kind eyes.

She pulled the blankets closer around her. Twice in one day she had been able to see the future. A thought struck her. At dinner VanCleef had mentioned her violet eyes and her ability to see the future. What if he wanted to use her to help him with his so-called Brotherhood? Idira didn't like the thought of that one bit. Those men were bad men. Men like Papa. She didn't want to be bad.

She stared up at the bed's canopy, fretting, trying to find a way out of her predicament.

It was a long time before she fell asleep again. She dreamed once more. Green fire rained from the heavens, incinerating everything it touched. Horrible, terrifying dog-like creatures with red scales stalked the land, their huge, sharp teeth tearing those they caught apart, uncaring of their anguished screams.

She woke up, her room violet once more. She cried out, was that the future too? She ran to Myra's room and got into bed with her. Her sister didn't move, an empty pitcher of wine sat on the bedside table. It didn't matter. So long as Idira wasn't alone.

She huddled up to her sister, and waited for the sun to rise, too frightened to sleep again.


	5. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

* * *

Grey light had just begun to line the edges of the bedroom curtains when Myra's door opened. Idira sat up, afraid it might be VanCleef coming to pester her sister again, but it was only Lanira. In the half-light, her minder looked tired. Lanira glanced at the bed and held out her hand.

"I thought you might be in here," she said, waving her fingers at Idira. "Come, let's get you dressed."

Idira left the warm cocoon of blankets and took her minder's hand but hung back, her gaze fixed on the bed.

"Come, child," Lanira said, although she lacked her usual ferocity, "I don't have the energy for your antics today."

Idira pointed at the huddled shape on the bed.

"Myra didn' move all night. I think somethin's wrong with her."

Alarmed, Lanira let go of Idira and hurried to the bed. She turned Myra from her side onto her back and looked her over.

"How long has she been like this?" she asked, sharp.

"Since I came here."

"How long?" Lanira snapped, impatient.

Idira shrugged. "Maybe two hours?"

Lanira pressed her fingers to Myra's neck. A long time passed. Her breathing turned shallow.

"They're too far apart," she murmured, frantic. She strode back across the room and grasped Idira's hand, yanking her, rough, out of the bedroom. Her hands shaking, Lanira pulled the door closed, her eyes darting up and down the hall, nervous. Idira looked around to see who Lanira was looking for, but the hall lay deserted. Her minder took a deep breath, calming herself.

"Idira, go to your room," she said, giving Idira a little push in the right direction.

"And stay there!" she bossed over her shoulder as she hurried away.

Idira dawdled after Lanira, waiting until her minder disappeared down the staircase. On the landing overlooking the entrance hall with its black and white chequered floor, Idira dallied as she walked to the stairs on the opposite side, occupying herself with trailing her fingers along the banister's carved wooden railings. Lanira reappeared from the back of the house, throwing a cloak over her shoulders, followed by two menservants. With a flourish of her gown, she swept out the front door.

Idira decided to wait. She could always run upstairs when Lanira came back. Her minder would never know. Idira sat down and pushed her legs through the railings, revelling in the feeling of her feet dangling in the air. She kicked her legs, as the household staff hurried from one part of the house to another; the women dressed in smart black dresses and crisp white aprons, the men in black breeches, white shirts and half aprons. They looked very elegant in their clothes, far too well dressed to be scrubbing the floor. Yet there they were, a man and woman working together in silence, their movements across the marbled surface precise and rhythmic. It was like watching a dance. Idira began to feel a little sleepy. She leaned her head against the railings and closed her eyes.

She woke with a start, the hall lay deserted. Voices drifted from the back of the house. Someone laughed. A maid came into view carrying a glass vase containing a large arrangement of flowers. She set it onto the round table in the middle of the entrance hall, turning the vase this way and that until she was satisfied. Idira stood up, thinking about going back to Myra's room, to see if she had missed anything.

"And so we meet again, little one."

Idira turned around. VanCleef stood in front of her, a small smile on his lips. He wore a pair of dark leather breeches, matching boots, a fitted white shirt, and a long black jacket, the edges of its lapels embroidered with golden thread. He pushed the sides of his jacket back and rested his hands on the grips of two daggers, one on each hip.

He glanced around the empty landing.

"Where is your minder?" he asked.

Idira pointed at the front door. VanCleef leaned over the banister to see. He raised a brow.

"She left?"

Idira nodded. "I think she thinks Myra's sick."

His hands left the dagger grips. He half-turned towards Myra's room. "What do you mean 'sick'?"

"I had a bad dream, so I went ta her bed, but she didn' move. She never moved all night."

His face drained of colour. "No," he whispered. He bolted down the hall and burst into Myra's room without even knocking.

"Myra!" he called as he covered the distance to her bed in two strides. She didn't move or make a sound. Frantic, he tore away the blankets and pulled her naked body upright. Her head lolled, and a little blood came out of her mouth.

"No, no, no," he murmured as he lay her back down onto the bed and felt her neck, just like Lanira had done. "This isn't happening. I won't lose you, I won't."

He crossed the room, his face hard and desperate all at the same time. He opened the door and almost collided with Lanira and an elegant woman Idira had never seen before, dressed head-to-toe in white. An elaborate head piece with long beaded tassels concealed her face.

He roared a curse. Idira covered her mouth. That was a very, very bad word, even Papa hardly ever used it. Lanira and the new woman backed away, their heads bowed.

He grabbed hold of the woman in white's forearm and dragged her, stumbling behind him over to Myra. He let her go with so much force she slammed against the side of the bed.

"Save her," he panted, "or by the Light you will never see the ones you love again." He pulled one side of his jacket back and let her see the dagger concealed there. Her eyes slid to the weapon. She swallowed and nodded.

He moved to the other side of the bed and took Myra's hand, his eyes on the woman in white, fierce, as if he dared her to fail. Idira crept to the end of the bed and wrapped her fingers around the top of the footboard.

"Is she going ta die?" she asked, feeling very frightened and alone all of a sudden.

"No," VanCleef answered, sharp. "Not today."

Murmurs from the hall drifted in. Several maids clustered outside, nosy, trying to see in. At a dark look from VanCleef, Lanira hurried to close the door. She came back to help Arinna as she worked to remove her enormous headpiece.

"Trained in Stormwind's Cathedral, the Priestess Arinna is the most powerful healer in all of Westfall," Lanira said, as she set the cumbersome thing aside. "She will save your sister, you must believe it."

Arinna took a deep breath and held her hands palm down over Myra's abdomen. Silence fell.

Idira closed her eyes and believed as hard as she could. She imagined Myra wearing one of her pretty dresses, her hair curled by the hot tongs and eating fine food at the grand table downstairs. Idira didn't know how to pray or the right words to say, so she mouthed the same words over and over, willing her sister to live.

 _Please, Myra, please don't go._

A glow of white light breached Idira's closed eyes. Something was happening. Idira cracked her eyes open a little to peek. The priestess's hands glowed pure white. Light, like liquid fire, poured out of them into Myra's torso. Arinna murmured strange words, her voice growing stronger, gaining power. The light intensified. Her gown began to shift, moving in invisible currents, like a living thing.

Still unconscious, Myra's back arched, her torso lifting toward the priestess's hands. Tendrils of darkness slithered from Myra's extremities to her torso, they gathered there, churning, malevolent. Idira gaped, there was so much, maybe one healer wouldn't be enough.

Arinna weaved her hands in the air, drawing the darkness to her. One, then another of the dozens of tendrils clinging to Myra slid up into the priestess's hands, her light cleansing the foul, viscous things, tendril by tendril, as soon as one disappeared, ten more slithered up from deep within Myra to join the mass coiling in her torso. A long time passed.

Idira's legs began to cramp from standing for so long. She forced herself to hold still, biting her lip as she rode out deep spasms of pain, unwilling to do anything that might break Arinna's concentration.

The priestess's voice wavered. She staggered, catching herself against the side of the bed. Lanira took hold of the priestess's shoulders, supporting her, her head bowed, willing Arinna to go on.

Held firm in Lanira's grip, Arinna pressed on, her voice becoming hoarse as she worked to extract and cleanse each and every blackened tendril. Several more long minutes passed. Idira couldn't feel her legs anymore. She clung to the bed's footboard, holding herself steady, scarcely daring to breathe.

Arinna rotated her hands over Myra's torso, searching. Only clear light reflected back. She murmured several brief words and the light faded. The room's shadows sped in to fill the void. Her fingers cramping, Idira let go of the footboard. Pain rushed into her legs. She rubbed them, trying to ease the ache of pins and needles. Arinna slumped to the floor, exhausted. Lanira yanked one of the curtains back. Sunlight streamed in, illuminating the bed.

VanCleef watched Myra, his expression taut. He stroked her face, tender, whispering words Idira couldn't make out. Her eyelids fluttered open.

He exhaled, shuddering with relief. "You live," he murmured. He pulled her into his arms and cradled her against him, protective. "You live."

She hung limp in his arms, so weak she could barely blink. His eyes darkened as he looked at her wan complexion, the shadows bruising her eyes. "What happened to you?"

Arinna stirred, reviving a little at his question. "She was poisoned."

"Cowards!" He cursed, furious. "So they think to attack me through her." His hold tightened on Myra, and he continued in a low voice, "Blood will be shed for this. Much blood."

Arinna held up her hand, weary, stopping him. "She poisoned herself, I assume unwittingly. Look there at the empty wine pitcher by the bed, and the other on the table. She's nothing but skin and bones. The wine overcame her, poisoning her until she fell into the deepest state of unconsciousness, from which there is usually no return. If Lanira had fetched me even five minutes later, Myra would not have survived. She was at the point of death when I began." She struggled to her feet, holding onto the back of a chair for support. "She needs to rest, and she needs food. No more wine, at least for the next week or so."

VanCleef glanced at the two jugs, then at Lanira, his black-dark eyes filled with accusation.

Lanira paled and shook her head, gabbling, "She must have sent for the wine after I left. Please, I beg you, I would never have allowed her so much. Master, it is the truth, upon my soul!"

VanCleef looked back down at Myra.

"Did Lanira give you the wine?" he asked, soft.

The slightest shake of her head. VanCleef nodded and kissed her brow, satisfied. He lay her back down, and covered her with the blankets.

"Rest my love, I will come to see you again this evening. Think of what you would like, anything you want of me, you may ask it. I will not deny you. It will be my gift to you for returning to me."

Her eyelids drifted closed. He watched her for several minutes until she fell into the quiet of sleep. He kissed her brow one last time and left the bed. He looked at Lanira, his eyes hard. "You will find out who brought her the wine and send them to me."

Lanira paled and nodded.

He went through the door, his footsteps retreating down the hall, angry. Lanira stumbled to a chair, her hands trembling as she took hold of it and sank down.

"He's going to kill an innocent person," she whispered, "for obeying Myra's request. These people are servants. What else could they have done?"

Arinna reached over and covered Lanira's hand. She glanced over her shoulder to see if Myra was awake. She wasn't.

"If you want to live, you will do as he commands," Arinna murmured, shaking her head. "We just have to hang on a little longer. Once King Wrynn overcomes his grief for Tiffin, he will send his men to Westfall. He must. He cannot leave us here, to be tyrannised by a monster who intends harm against the city. The merchants have—"

Out in the hallway someone whistled a slow, menacing tune. Arinna's eyes snapped to the door, startled.

The hairs on the back of her neck rising, Idira pulled the door open wider and peeked out. At the top of the stairs VanCleef looked back. He winked at her before continuing on his way, his dark, horrible tune drifting back, making her flesh crawl. She closed the door and covered her ears, but it wasn't enough.

* * *

For her act of disobedience Idira had to stay in her room for the whole day. The maid who brought in breakfast tried to cheer Idira up; she told her a delivery of toys had been scheduled to arrive that morning. In the meantime she fetched a piece of yarn so Idira could play with Blackie.

Breakfasted, bathed and dressed once more in her pink dress, Idira occupied herself dangling the yarn in front of Blackie. The cat soon began to tire and curled up to sleep. Idira petted Blackie for a while, kicking her heels against the side of the bed, feeling restless. She wasn't used to being cooped up all the time. She missed her freedom; the sun on her face, the taste of salt in the air, the crash of the waves against the shore. She wished she could go to the sea. She thought about her murloc friend, wondering if it had found her seashell necklace.

She wandered around her room, poking at the furniture, opening drawers and cupboards. All of them were empty. She knelt on the window seat and watched the people in the big square going about their business. She tried to open the window to catch the air, but couldn't open the latch. She fell back onto her haunches and turned to watch the door.

On the count of three it would open and the toys would arrive. She counted to three. The door stayed shut.

She slid off the window seat and listened at the keyhole. Nothing. She turned the doorknob and pulled the door open a crack. The corridor of the third floor lay shrouded in silence. She tapped her finger on the door handle, debating. She decided she would just look in the room across the hall, maybe there would be treasure in there.

The room lay completely empty. Sunlight streamed through the dusty, bare windows. A spider crawled along the frame.

She closed the door, deciding it wasn't fair to find an empty room. She was allowed another chance. She moved down the hall and tried the next room and then the next. All of them the same. Empty. Boring. The fourth room was more interesting, it didn't have any windows in the walls, just a square cut out in the roof, with glass over it. Still no furniture or carpets or curtains, but it did contain stacks of sealed wooden crates and boxes painted with letters and symbols she couldn't read. It was fun for awhile since the stacks were much taller than she so when she went between them, it was like a maze.

She followed the little corridors for awhile, entertained, trying to find a hiding spot. She found one tucked between the crates and the fireplace. She retraced her steps, pleased, and closed the door. Her secret hideaway. No one would find her in there.

She moved on, her confidence increasing as she opened the doors to all the rooms. Three more had the strange windows in the ceiling, with one of them containing another, smaller stack of the crates with the letters and symbols.

Of the rooms with proper windows, only three more had furniture in them, covered over with white sheets. She peeked under them, and decided she had the prettiest room of them all. No treasure, though. Having moved along the hall in one direction, she was surprised when she opened the door of her own room. She looked behind and in front of her, astonished, trying to work out how that could have happened.

She followed the hallway again, turning to the right three times. She reached her door again, realising the hallway must be a giant rectangle. She followed the corridor one more time, working out the layout. In the corridors at the front and back of the house, two doors lay on each side, with two rooms facing either the main square as hers did or over another yard, where the horses and stables were. She guessed that must be the back of the house, where the bad men had taken Benny.

In the rooms opposite hers and along the inside of the other two corridors, the windows overlooked the inner courtyard where VanCleef had ripped Myra's dress. The room with the spider was one of them. She worked out the rooms with the windows in the ceiling must be against the houses on either side, up against their walls. Besides herself, no one else occupied the floor. She shivered with delight, all that space, just to herself. And with all those windows she could almost see everywhere. The main square, the stable yard and the inner courtyard. She wasn't going to be bored ever again.

Footsteps on the staircase caught her attention. She hurried into her room and clambered up onto her bed just as her door opened and three delivery men came in. Two of them lugged a large wooden chest carved with fanciful, fantastic creatures curled around each other, their talons and wings outstretched. The third man carried a wooden horse, its hooves attached to long, curved pieces of wood. They set the things down without looking at her. One of them hefted open the lid of the chest.

Idira slid off the bed, gaping. It had been filled to the brim with every kind of toy imaginable. Games and building blocks, little wooden animals, and things she couldn't even describe. All of it crammed into a chest that looked like it had come from a fairy tale. If they had just given her the chest she would have been happy. It had to be a mistake.

"Is it all just for me?" she asked, breathless, part of her hoping against hope she was wrong, and it really, truly was for her.

The man smiled, but it wasn't a happy smile. If Idira could have called it anything, she would have said it was a bitter smile. Uncertain, she retreated a step.

"The Master has taken a shine to ye," he answered, rough. "Therefore the merchants of Moonbrook are happy ta donate ta the Brotherhood's cause."

"Oh," Idira said, disappointment flooding her. "So these belong ta the Brotherhood?" She eyed a soft stuffed toy. A floppy-eared grey rabbit with blue eyes made of glass, a silky white ribbon tied in a bow around its neck. She longed to touch it, but if it belonged to the Brotherhood . . . the men must have made a mistake and put the chest in the wrong room, maybe it was supposed to go in the room with the other crates and her toys would come later.

The man looked back at the other two, who shook their heads, a warning look in their eyes. He scoffed and looked at the toys, his lips twisting with distaste.

"Ye're a quick one, ain't ye? I can see why the Master likes ye. Aye, all this 'belongs' ta the Brotherhood, jus' like everything else in this house. Fer those who find favour with the Master, there ain't no shortage o' luxury. Fer the rest o' us . . . well, that's another story." He leaned over, and put his face close to hers. She could smell the stink of spirits on his breath. He jerked his head towards the chest. "These things were fetched from Stormwind for ye, at a King's ransom, so mind ye enjoy 'em, and take good care o' em for plenty o' others won't be eating mor'n gruel for the next year ta pay fer it all."

He lifted a dirty finger and pointed at her as he backed away, menacing her. The door slammed shut behind him. Idira didn't understand half of what he said, but she knew better than to ask VanCleef, for some reason she knew something bad would happen to that man if she did. She would ask Lanira, maybe, if she was being nice. Whatever the smelly man said, it seemed the toys were there to stay.

Unable to resist any longer, she knelt down and pulled out the bunny. It was so soft, she wondered if its fur was real. She kissed its pink nose and hugged it tight. Setting it to one side, she proceeded to go through the chest's contents. It took a long time. There were many things she didn't recognise or know how to use. She separated the toys into two piles, the pile with things she didn't know what to do with grew much faster than the pile with the things she did.

She played with the blocks for awhile, building little corrals for the small wooden animals. As she repacked some of the toys back into the chest, she discovered a pair of wooden handles recessed into its lower portion. She pulled on it and a drawer slid open. With a cry of delight she found books, filled with pictures of fairy tales. She couldn't read anything, but the drawings were so vivid and filled with life she could almost figure out the stories from them. Princesses and princes, fire-breathing creatures with wings, and castles that perched atop high mountains. She spent most of the rest of the morning looking at her books. A lunch tray arrived. She ate, barely even noticing the beautifully arranged meal.

At the very bottom of the pile of books, she found books without words, just pictures outlined in black and white along with a flat box filled with colouring pencils. She pulled them out, staring at her sudden bounty. Unable to stop herself, she did a little dance of joy.

Picking up her bunny, she climbed up onto the bed and leafed through the book, looking for the first picture she would colour. A blood curdling scream made her jump, sending her pencils flying everywhere. Blackie bolted under the bed, her tail almost as fat as her body.

Idira looked at her door, the creep of dread stealing her happiness. Something bad was about to happen. She could feel it in her bones, like when Papa would come home drunk and hit Myra for nothing. Idira went to the door and opened it. Another scream filled her ears. A woman sobbed, pleading, crying, begging for mercy. Her cries came from the room across the hall, the one with the spider in it.

Idira ran to the room and opened the door, maybe she could help. The room lay just as deserted as it had before. Confused, Idira looked around, the cries had sounded so close. Another scream rent the air, long and thin, agonised. She turned to the window, slow. It overlooked the courtyard. The place where VanCleef did bad things.

Something inside her warned her to turn around and go back to her room, to her bunny and her colouring book. But Idira didn't listen, the screams carried on, turning to shrieks, filled with pain.

She went to the window and looked down. A nightmare met her eyes. The maid who had brought Blackie the yarn lay naked on a table, her wrists and ankles tied to the table's legs. The flesh over her torso lay open, like a door, the muscle folded back, a big, red flap, exposing her innards. Her eyes wild, she panted in terror, blood pouring out of her. Wearing nothing more than trousers and a hood, VanCleef pulled her insides out, staining his arms up to his elbows with her blood. Her guts trailed out over the table and onto the stone flags, an endless chain. The woman juddered and shat herself.

VanCleef's henchmen lounged, bored, around the edges of the courtyard. One of them smoked a roll up, he flicked its ash onto the ground, unconcerned. Why didn't they help her? Apart from the woman's shuddering sobs, the courtyard lay shrouded in complete silence. Idira sensed death stalking the maid. VanCleef ran out of guts to pull out. He reached in and pulled something else out, yanking it free. The maid's eyes rolled back into her head. Blood saturated the table and ran down onto the stones underneath. VanCleef prowled around the table, careful not slip on the woman's entrails. Idira pressed her hands against the window, whispering, desperate, begging him to finish the poor woman.

He picked up a sword from one of the weapons racks and lifted it high. He brought it down fast, against her neck. Her head rolled to one side, freed of her body. Using the point of his sword, he flicked it off the table. It hit the ground and rolled across the courtyard, blood spraying behind it.

Bile burst into Idira's throat. Before she could stop herself, she threw up, her lunch splattering against the window sill.

She crumpled onto the floor, reeling from what she had just witnessed. Her maid had no head. She threw up again, emptying her stomach until she had nothing left. The dry heaves lasted a long time.

Shaking, she left the room and closed the door. She ran to get her bunny and fled to the room with the crates, hurrying through the little corridors to her hiding place. She stayed there until the daylight in the ceiling window faded. Out in the hall, doors opened and closed, loud. She heard her name called over and over, sharp and filled with worry. VanCleef. She cried. She didn't want to see him. She huddled deeper into her hiding spot.

The door opened, letting in a shaft of light. She sniffed, the sound carried, loud. He came into the room and moved through the crates. She clutched her bunny, tighter. He was coming, she would be next. She started crying again.

Strong hands reached in and took hold of her, pulling her, gentle, out from between the stack of crates and the wall. She shrank away from him. He let out an anguished sound as she clung to one of the crates, her heart pounding.

He held out his hand to her, like she had done with Blackie under the porch the day they left home, his voice pleading.

"Little one, no. Please don't be afraid of me, you will break my heart. I will never hurt you. I swear it. She was a bad woman. She almost killed your sister. Myra is safe now."

Idira couldn't understand, with VanCleef everything was so complicated. She wept, confusion and terror making her bawl so hard snot hung out of her nose. He waited a little while before attempting to pry her fingers from the crate. She tried and failed to resist his strength.

Making soft sounds of reassurance, he picked her up in the crook of his arm and carried her back to her room. Setting her on her bed, he knelt in front of her and untied his red silk scarf from around his neck. He wiped her cheeks and nose, smearing it with her snot and tears, his attention gentle and fatherly. When he finished, he tucked the ruined thing into one of his pockets.

He looked down at the bunny in her arms. "You like this one, then?"

Idira nodded, wary.

"And the other things?" He opened the chest and looked in. A smile of approval spread across his face. "Oh they _have_ done well. Just as I ordered. They must have emptied Stormwind's toy store for you."

Idira couldn't wrap her head around what was happening. He wanted to talk about her new toys, as though he hadn't just butchered a woman today. VanCleef turned back to her, his eyes kind and attentive, just like the night in the kitchen. Idira tried to think about what she had seen him do that afternoon, but her mind wouldn't let her. All she could think about was her puke.

She pointed at the door. "I threw up. In there."

VanCleef nodded, a spasm of guilt crossing his face. "I know. It's alright. I didn't think. I am not used to having a little one in the house. From now on I will take care of disciplinary issues elsewhere." He took hold of her chin, his eyes intent on hers. "I promise you will never see or hear anything like that again. You have my word."

He didn't wait for her to answer. He stood up and held out his hand. "Now, let's go see your sister, shall we? You can tell her about your new things and show her your bunny."

Idira slid off the bed. She looked at his hand, uncertain. He smiled and withdrew it.

"Perhaps you should keep both hands on your bunny while you go down the stairs. You wouldn't want to drop him."

Idira nodded, grateful not to have to touch him.

He opened the door. "Have you given your bunny a name?" he asked, conversational, as he went into the hallway.

"Yes," Idira answered, quiet.

"And what should I call him?"

Idira stopped and looked at the floor. She hugged the bunny closer to her, defensive. "Benny," she whispered.

VanCleef went very still. She glanced up at him and caught the flicker of his disapproval, quickly concealed. He smiled again, showing more teeth than usual.

" _Benny the Bunny_ ," he said in a sing-song voice, though it sounded a little mean. He chuckled, amused by something only he seemed to understand. He walked on. "A good name. I like it. I like it very much."

At the bottom of the flight of stairs, Idira ran around the landing and raced down the hall to Myra's room, eager to see her sister. She skidded to halt. Two burly henchmen with shaved heads stood in front of her closed door, clad in worn, dark leather. Both wore red bandanas tied around their necks. They eyed her, their eyes cold, reminding Idira of Papa. She turned and looked back at VanCleef, coming up the hall after her. He gestured to the men, impatient. One of them hastened to unlock the door, opening it just as VanCleef arrived.

He strode past Idira and went into the room, his eyes gravitating to the bed. Myra sat propped up against a mountain of white cushions, thick blankets covering her legs up to her hips. A tray of food sat perched in front of her, filled with small platters, a few of them half empty. Myra's nightgown lay open, its blue silk ribbons hanging loose. Idira caught the curve of her sister's breasts showing through the opening. Myra glanced up as they entered. Her complexion, already pale, drained further of colour. She lifted trembling fingers to her nightgown, fumbling with the ribbons, trying to close it.

VanCleef went to her. "Allow me," he said, soft.

Idira half expected him to rip the material again, but he surprised her. Instead he gingerly lifted the ribbons and tied them together, deft. In a heartbeat, Myra was decent.

Idira slipped up onto the bed. She held out her bunny to Myra.

"I have a new bunny," she said, not knowing what else to talk about. She wasn't going to tell her sister about what VanCleef did, it would only upset her. She put the bunny on Myra's lap, in front of the tray. "It's very soft. Ye can touch it if ye like."

Myra stroked its fur, a faint smile ghosting her lips. She looked exhausted, weakness emanated from her. She tried to hand the toy rabbit back to Idira. She couldn't.

Idira looked at VanCleef as she collected the toy. "Is Myra goin' ta be okay?"

He kept his eyes on Myra as he answered. "She will, she just needs time. From now on, no more mistakes will be made. I was careless. Never again."

He lifted the tray and set it on a side table alongside a vase filled with purple flowers. He returned and sat on the edge of the bed, reaching out to take Myra's hand. She slid her hand away, struggling to put distance between them.

He lowered his hand onto his leather-clad thigh and sighed. "Myra, what must I do to prove my love for you?"

She didn't answer. She sagged against the cushions. Fatigue rolled off her, tangible.

Idira adjusted one of the cushions to better support Myra's head. Idira had never seen her sister brought so low.

"Maybe she wants ta sleep for awhile," she said.

Myra closed her eyes and nodded.

VanCleef stood up. "Of course. Perhaps tomorrow you will feel strong enough to tell me your wish."

Myra's eyes flickered open. "No. Now."

VanCleef sat back down, a look of satisfaction crossing his face. "Anything, as I promised."

"I want ta see Benny," she whispered, "ta say goodbye. Alone."

VanCleef inhaled deep through his nose. Anger flickered in his eyes. He stood up, rigid.

"Very well," he said, his voice no longer smooth but clipped and sharp. "If that is your wish, as a man of honour, I have no choice but to oblige." He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes boring into Myra's, dangerous. "But on one point I will not concede. You will not see him alone. Idira will stay with you. I don't imagine things could go very far with a child present."

Myra looked away, out the window into the square. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in dark pinks and oranges. She looked back at him, her face filled with loathing.

"I jus' want ta say goodbye. Is it so much ta ask, even of ye?"

He watched her, his dark eyes softening as she crumpled, defeated, against the cushions.

"I'll have him here by tomorrow evening. The sooner this is ended, the better."

She met his eyes once more, but this time she looked at him like an animal, cornered. "Aye, just so Mr VanCleef, just so."

Idira didn't understand her sister's meaning, but VanCleef must have. His cheeks burning, he backed away, a look of deep injury upon him.

At the door he stopped but didn't look back. "I'm a great believer in cause and effect, Myra," he said, his voice cold. "It is the cornerstone of what the Brotherhood stands for. Today a woman died because of your thoughtless, selfish actions. I suggest you keep that in mind if you ever intend to behave in such a way again."

He went out. The door slammed behind him. A key turned in the lock.

Myra closed her eyes and turned her head away. Idira went to her and stroked her hair. In the light of the setting sun, the tears on Myra's eyelashes glittered like jewels, reminding Idira of her fairy tales. The room fell dark. Myra slept. It was a long time before Lanira came to put Idira to bed.

* * *

That night Idira dreamed dreams of swords and blood, and of toys marching down the road from Stormwind to Moonbrook. Along the sides of the road starving people reached out, begging for food, their once beautiful clothing hanging from their skinny frames, patched and worn.

Her dream changed. She was back in the big house. She flew from room to room, but found all of them in ruins. Scraps of material fluttered in the gaping window frames, the glass long gone. What little furniture remained lay broken and gathering dust.

All the maids were gone, and the menservants too. She drifted into the front dining room and found VanCleef and Myra dining alone together at the big table, surrounded by his henchmen. One of them flicked the ashes of his roll up into Myra's food and laughed.

VanCleef poured Myra wine and waited until she drank it. He poured her more and held the glass up to her mouth. She resisted, but he forced her to drink. He kept giving her more wine until Myra filled up like a waterskin, reminding Idira of a dead man she had once seen wash up on the seashore. VanCleef fell to his knees and wept, clutching the lifeless, bloated shape of Myra against him, begging her to forgive him.

Idira woke. The room glowed violet once more. She hugged her bunny and shut her eyes. If she didn't see the light, maybe her awful dreams wouldn't come true. She got up and lit a taper from the banked embers of the fireplace. Putting its flame against several candles, she lit them and banished the violet light. She picked up her colouring book and pencils, determined to distract herself. Back in the warmth of her bed she lost herself in her work. The act of colouring soothed her, blunting the sharp edges of her dreams.

She finished her picture and held it up to show to Blackie. The cat cracked open one eye and settled back to sleep, uninterested. Idira huffed and showed it to her bunny, remembering all at once Benny would be there that night. She bit her lip. Maybe she should tell him about the violet light. He might know of a way to make it go away. Before coming to Moonbrook she had never seen the violet light before. Maybe it was magic. She shivered as a prickle of fear spiked through her. Maybe it was bad magic. Maybe she was bad, like VanCleef.

Troubled, Idira settled back against her cushions and looked up at the canopy over her bed, her gaze following the intricate details of the pattern's design. Benny would know what to do. Idira could trust him. If anyone could help her, it would be him.

Until then, all she could do was wait.


	6. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER 5**

* * *

Idira's lessons started as soon as she finished her breakfast. Two menservants carried in a desk and matching chair. As they settled the desk beside the window, a dark-haired middle-aged woman wearing an elegant navy gown came in, holding a small leather satchel. She set the satchel onto the desk and looked around the room, nodding to herself. The men left and closed the door.

The woman held out her hand.

"My name is Nin," she said, her accent arched and refined. "I am here to teach you decorum, and how to read and write."

Idira took the woman's hand. Her tutor gently lifted Idira's fingers up and down, just the once.

"This is how you will greet others when you first meet them. You will also say 'How do you do?' Shall we try again?"

"How do you do?" Nin asked.

"Fine," Idira answered, before repeating the greeting back.

Nin shook her head. "Ah. One never replies to the question, they simply repeat the greeting back. Try again."

Idira stared at her tutor, uncomprehending. Why would anyone ask another person how they were if they didn't want to know the answer? Even though it made no sense, she tried again. She repeated the pointless phrase without answering.

"Excellent," Nin smiled, pleased. "Now you must learn the protocol for who asks the question first. It goes like this," she counted off the levels of seniority on her slender fingers. "Station, sex, and age. Therefore if one were greeting the Queen of Stormwind, unless they were the king of a more powerful kingdom, she would always ask first."

Idira gaped. _This_ is what VanCleef wanted her to learn—the rules of who gets to ask a pointless question first?

Nin straightened up and folded her hands together at her waist. "Now let's try a little test, shall we? If your sister was to meet me, whom do you think would speak first?"

Idira examined her tutor. The woman was easily twice Myra's age, full of poise and very elegant. She looked like a proper lady. It was an easy question. Myra was no one, a farm girl. Idira pointed at Nin.

Nin shook her head, patient. "No dear, your sister would speak first. She is Mr VanCleef's lady. If Westfall were to have a queen, Myra would be she."

Idira could feel her eyebrows climbing. Her sister, a queen? She waited for Nin to laugh, but her tutor remained serious. It appeared Nin was not pulling Idira's leg like Benny sometimes did when he made up silly stories. It made no sense. Idira realised she really had no idea who VanCleef was.

"VanCleef can make Myra a queen?" she asked, trying to work it all out. "Is he a prince?"

Nin didn't answer. She crossed the room and sank down onto the window seat. After a moment, she patted the space beside her. Idira went to her and climbed up, sensing her tutor was going to tell her something important.

"What do you know about Edwin VanCleef?" Nin asked, quiet.

Idira shrugged and fiddled with a loose thread on her dress. "Jus' that he can make Papa do what he wants, an' he has this big, fancy house, an' sometimes he does real bad things. Myra doesn' like him. She misses Benny . . . I miss Benny, too."

Idira felt Nin's gentle fingers on her chin. Nin lifted her head so Idira met her tutor's eyes.

"VanCleef is not a prince, nor is he even nobly-born," she said, soft. "But he is the son of a great mason and learned much at his side. VanCleef is one of the architects who masterminded the rebuilding of Stormwind after the war. It would have taken anyone else fifty years to accomplish what he did, but because of his leadership and engineering skills, he did it in ten. VanCleef is a very clever, gifted man. Stormwind owes him much."

Nin looked out the window, her gaze turning inward, lost in her thoughts. After a time, she continued, "My husband was one of the architects who worked alongside him. He fell in the riots, may the Light rest his soul." She looked back at Idira, her eyes bright with tears. "VanCleef is trying to right a terrible wrong, but to do so, he must build an army of his own against Stormwind. Some might say his methods are unusual, since those who have rallied to his call—apart from the workmen like your father—are criminals. They are dangerous men who must be taught to fear him else Westfall may fall into their hands. He walks a fine line between leading the Brotherhood and controlling those men."

Idira thought of the men outside Myra's door and the ones lounging in the courtyard when VanCleef disembowelled the maid. She thought she understood. Those were the bad men, not VanCleef. He was trying to prove he was more dangerous than them, so they would obey him.

"So he is _pretending_ to be bad?"

Nin nodded. "Just so. I have known him since he was a boy. Edwin is a good lad, circumstances have forced him to become the man he is today." She patted Idira's hand. "He fights for men like your father who spent ten years rebuilding the city. Very few know he was offered a government position with a fat income and no taxes if he chose to forget about the money owed to his men and abandon them. He refused. Now he must live like a outlaw, forbidden to enter the very city he built."

It took Idira a little time to digest her tutor's words. She sorted through her memories, filling the gaps with Nin's information. She scratched her head. "Then . . . he's a good man?"

Nin nodded again. "It must be difficult for one so young to understand, but when you grow older you will learn sometimes one must do wrong for the greater good. It is a terrible burden to bear. I do not envy Edwin his path." She gestured at Idira's room, taking in the luxurious furnishings. "The man who rules this house is far nobler than any prince, and he loves your sister, he would do anything for her, and for you."

Nin stood up, smoothed the creases from her immaculate dress and held out her hand. Idira slid off the window seat and took it, her mind filled with her tutor's words. There was so much she didn't know. She wondered why VanCleef hadn't told her the truth in the kitchen. Maybe he didn't want to brag, like Benny often did. Maybe the maid really had been a bad woman and had tried to hurt Myra on purpose. If VanCleef was smart, he would have found out the truth. He wouldn't have killed her unless she was guilty.

Idira followed her tutor to the desk. Nin lifted her up onto the chair and pulled a sheaf of papers from the satchel, spreading them out in front of Idira. Symbols, the same as the ones on the crates she had found, lay stencilled in dotted lines across the sheets. It reminded Idira of her colouring book. Nin put a pencil in between Idira's fingers and stood back.

"Today you will learn the alphabet, let us begin."

* * *

It had been the best day of Idira's life. Cross-legged, she sat on the bed and gazed at her handiwork, the pages spread out across the bed cover. She had learned to trace out all the letters of the alphabet. She had even managed to write out a few of the easier ones on her own, without the tracery. The first word she wrote was her name. She looked at the page, her heart bursting with pride, that was her name and she had written it out, all by herself.

On the next page was Myra's name, and then Benny's, and finally on the last page, written out with great care, was VanCleef's. She couldn't wait to be called downstairs so she could show the others what she had accomplished. Nin had been generous with her praise as Idira worked. When her tutor departed just before dinner, Idira had overheard her telling Lanira in the hallway that she thought Idira was an extremely bright child.

Tomorrow they would continue their work, but Idira couldn't wait. She pulled out her colouring book, and on a blank page at the back she tried writing her name again, though Blackie kept interrupting her by chasing her pencil. The door opened. She looked up, Lanira came in and moved to the bed. She looked over the pages, silent. Her eyes lingered on the one with VanCleef's name. She picked it up and looked at it, expressionless. After Nin had left, Idira had drawn a little stick figure picture at the bottom, of VanCleef holding her hand in front of the door of the big house. Lanira set it back down in exactly the same place. Idira caught her wiping her fingers on her skirt, discreet. Lanira nodded at the door.

"Benny's just arrived and is waiting in the yard at the back," she said, turning to leave. "I'm to have you in Myra's room before he is brought in." She stopped and looked back at Idira. "I have spent the entire day trying to reason with your stubborn sister, but she has this hare-brained idea that Benny will be able to fight his way out of this house with her by his side. The girl can't even walk, what's he supposed to do, fight _and_ carry her? I want you to promise me if he agrees to such a mad thing you will hide under the bed. I don't want to see you hurt."

Idira glanced down at the pages in her hands, her heart sinking, all she wanted to do was see Benny, give him her present, and ask him about the violet light. But Myra had lied to VanCleef, so there was bound to be trouble ahead. Idira probably wouldn't even get a chance to ask Benny anything before everything went wrong.

"I promise," she answered, quiet, organising the papers so Myra's lay on the top.

Lanira's face softened. "I've been hard on you, haven't I? You have proven to be a sweet child, though a little disobedient at times. If anything happens today, you will always have a home with me. My little one went to the Light years ago, but her room would suit you well, should the worst happen."

Idira looked up, her own troubles forgotten. "You lost your little girl?"

Lanira pressed her lips together and nodded. "She had a sickness even Arinna could not cure. Kara was your age when she—" she shook her head, and pulled the door open wide, blinking back tears. "Come, now is not the time."

Idira followed her minder down the stairs to the landing on the second floor, seeing her with new eyes. Lanira had lost her child, and Idira had lost her mother. Why did everything have to be so broken and unhappy in the world? Why couldn't VanCleef have the money owed to Papa and the other workmen? If the people in Stormwind had only paid what they owed, Idira would never have come here, the chickens would never have been taken away, and Myra and Benny would still be together planning their wedding and their move to their little farm in Elwynn. Papa would be leaving for Redridge to build his house. The maid would never have died.

So much unhappiness, most of it caused by money.

They approached the door to Myra's room. Two new men stood outside it, even meaner looking than the ones from the day before. One of them had an iron collar around his neck. He looked twice the size of Benny, the massive muscles of his upper arms bulged under their leather wrappings. He glared at Idira as she approached.

She shrank back against Lanira's skirts, terrified. Her minder's arm wrapped around her shoulder, protective. At a sharp word from Lanira, the mean looking man unlocked and opened Myra's door, his scarred hands far too big and rough for the elegant key and fragile door handle. Lanira swept forward, hurrying Idira along, ignoring his hostile look. Idira cringed as she passed him. Benny could never beat that man, he looked like he ate rocks for breakfast. Perhaps that was why he was there, to send Benny a message.

Once in the room, she ran to Myra, desperate to put distance between herself and the horrible man cursing as he struggled to lock the door. She had only begun to tell Myra of her day when the door unlocked once more. Myra's breath caught. Idira turned. Benny and VanCleef stood in the hallway. Benny looked rough, his injuries still healing from his fight with VanCleef. His sweat stained leather tunic and breeches bore the evidence of a long day spent travelling. VanCleef stood with his hands on the hilts of his daggers in a fitted black sleeveless leather tunic and breeches, his boots rising above his knees. He looked like he had been training. A sheen of sweat coated his arms and face. His dark eyes went straight to Myra who lay propped in the bed, her hair tumbling loose over her dressing gown. He gave her a look, intense and possessive. He held her gaze as he stepped aside to let Benny pass. Benny came in, not knowing where to look, fists at his sides. Lanira slipped past him and pulled the door closed behind her. No one locked it this time. Idira sensed VanCleef outside the door, ready to come in at the slightest provocation.

"Benny," Myra whispered, struggling to lift her arms to him.

He went to her, anguished. He took her hands and sank to his knees beside her. He looked even more awful up close. Fresh cuts and bruises showed over the older ones. Idira wondered if Benny had gotten a fresh beating from Papa once he arrived in Redridge.

"My love," he rasped, his voice hoarse. He sounded tired. "Ye must listen ta me close, fer he's only lettin' us have two minutes. There's nothin' I can do for ye. If ye ever want ta see me again, ye have ta go along wit' him."

Myra tried to pull herself up. "No. Take me with ye. Please, don' leave me here. I beg ye."

"Ye think I like it anymore than ye? It haunts me, I can't sleep for thinking he's taken what's mine, knowin' there's nothin' I can do ta stop it, except bide my time an' wait."

Myra shook her head, tears brimming in her eyes. "Ye knew VanCleef was goin' ta claim me. Why did ye let me come here, ta this? Why didn't ye take me ta Elwynn while ye still had the chance?"

Benny's jaw clenched. He looked at the floor, then back up at her, his eyes bright with tears. "If I'd taken ye ta Elwynn, he'd have found us, killed me and still taken ye. Jac said it would only be the once, I drank myself senseless that night trying not ta think about it." He punched the mattress. "It was only meant ta be the once!"

Myra slumped back against the cushions, her tiny reserve of energy exhausted.

"Then kill me. I beg ye," she dragged his hands to her throat. "If ye ever loved me ye'll end my pain."

Idira touched Benny's hand, frightened. "Ye have ta talk sense inta her. She already tried ta die once an' VanCleef killed a lady for it. "

Benny came to his feet, shaking his head. He took hold of Myra's chin and cupped her face. Under his tender look, she sobbed.

"Please," she whispered. A tear slid free.

"There is another way," he said as he brushed her tear away with his thumb. "I been hearing rumours that the King won't stand for what VanCleef's doing here in Westfall. Give it time, he'll come soon enough and finish him. Ye must live, for I'll have ye yet as my wife on our little farm in Elwynn. Don't ye be dying on me. It's hard enough as it is, knowing ye're here, but ta know I've lost ye, forever . . ." He pressed his forehead to hers, his tears mingling with hers. "I love ye so much. Just live, fer me. Promise me ye'll see this through and come back ta me."

Myra shuddered, but she nodded. Benny kissed her hard and pulled away. "I'll never stop thinkin' about ye. I swear it. Ye're all I live fer."

He backed away to the door. Idira slipped off the bed and ran to him. He knelt and caught her in his arms, hugging her so hard she almost couldn't breathe. He let her go and stood up, his attention returning to Myra once more.

"Take good care o' yer sister until I can come back."

Idira held up the page with Benny's name on it. "This is fer ye. I wrote it today, it's yer name."

He took it from her and looked it over, his eyes bright with unshed tears. "Well, I'll be. Ye're goin' ta go places, ye are. Allus was a clever thing, must be those pretty eyes o' yers."

The door opened. VanCleef walked in, like a cat prowling for prey. He almost looked disappointed to find nothing happening. He looked at Myra.

"I take it your goodbyes have been made?" he asked, cold.

Myra glanced at Benny, who watched her, his eyes filled with warning.

She nodded.

VanCleef exhaled. He glanced at Benny. "Your transport to Redridge awaits." He gestured at the door, dismissing him.

"Jus' don' let her die," Benny said, his gaze sliding back to hold Myra's, as though he was memorising her. He turned and walked out. He never looked back.

* * *

Days passed. Myra stayed in her room, recovering, under the care of Arinna and Lanira. True to his word, VanCleef had not gone back to Myra again after Benny left, allowing her the promised time to come to terms with her new situation. She never tried to die again, though she didn't talk much whenever Idira went to visit her. She just looked out the window with a faraway look in her eyes. Idira tried to tell her what Nin had told her, so Myra could see VanCleef was a good man, but Lanira hushed her up, saying not to trouble her sister with politics.

Over the weeks, things settled into a semblance of calm, even a brief visit from Papa had been uneventful. He had moved around Idira's room like a caged animal, looking at her things, scoffing to himself. Idira showed him her writing. He looked at it, unimpressed and tossed it back onto the desk. He had changed, becoming even harder and meaner looking, his body lean and muscled, hardened from travelling and whatever else he did as the Defias's Enforcer. Idira was glad when he left. He reminded her of the criminals, maybe they were influencing him. When he came in, she had been in the midst of a lesson. Nin had been polite to him, though he hadn't been to her. He had looked at her like he was taking her clothes off with his eyes, a dirty leer on his face. When he left, Nin had reached out for the back of one of the chairs, and clung to it shuddering.

Apart from an increasing presence of thugs and criminals coming and going into the courtyard below, Idira's life fell into a comfortable routine. She gained weight and her hair began to shine, glossy with health. New clothes arrived almost daily in pretty ribbon-wrapped boxes. Soon her wardrobe became so full, the doors couldn't be closed, its rail groaning under the weight of dresses in every colour imaginable. Blackie came and went, plump and shiny from boar meat, wearing a little red leather collar, bearing a bronze tag with her name engraved on it. VanCleef had had it made to match the collars worn by the rest of the cats in his house. No one ever dared hurt the cats wearing his collars, not even the bad men. Just like Idira, Blackie had a good life. VanCleef kept his promise to Idira too, except for the occasional bellow of injury from training with his men, he had never hurt anyone again.

Idira's lessons with Nin continued everyday, except on the holy day, when they had to go to the cathedral and listen to a sermon from the bishop. Idira loved going to the cathedral and listening to his stories. They were very interesting. Bishop Mattias taught about the Light and how it resided in every living being. Sometimes he would tell stories of heroes who had used their Light for the greatest good, and would often speak of the bravery and integrity of the paladin, Lord Uther the Lightbringer. When he did, he would look meaningfully at VanCleef, who sat beside Idira on the front pew wearing his Holy Day best; an elegant fitted red jacket, cream shirt and breeches, black boots and a red silk scarf around his throat, tied like a cravat. VanCleef would nod at the bishop, a tight smile on his lips, though he didn't look pleased. Idira couldn't understand why, it seemed a great compliment to be singled out by the bishop and compared to the wondrous Lord Uther. She wondered if the violet light was her Light. Maybe she wasn't bad after all, she just had a different colour light. She wished she could have had the time to ask Benny.

Her learning progressed. Soon she was able to read her fairytale books without any help. She finished all of them. Nin brought her new books, much more difficult to read. Idira soon mastered those too. Nin said she couldn't keep up with Idira, but she smiled when she said it, her eyes shining with pride.

Nin also schooled Idira in the proper manner of speaking, gently correcting her each time she erred. Within six weeks, Idira spoke just like Nin. She loved the way the words sounded in her mouth, pretty and precise. At bedtime, she would read her books aloud to her bunny, revelling in the sudden pleasure of speaking like a proper lady.

Every evening before dinner, Idira was sent outside to play in the stable yard to get exercise and fresh air. She would pat the horses' muzzles and give them cut up pieces of apple from the barrel in the kitchen. Lanira gave Idira something called a skipping rope, and once Idira learned how to use it, she used it all the time, even to skip along the hallways, though Nin frowned upon it, saying it wasn't ladylike behaviour.

One evening, after almost two months had passed, VanCleef told her he had found out her birthday would be in a week. He promised her whatever she wanted to celebrate on the coming Holy Day. Idira asked if they could eat at the Weary Traveller, Moonbrook's fancy inn on the square. VanCleef smiled, indulgent and asked if there was anyone in particular she would like invited. Secretly Idira wished she could see Benny, but she knew better than to ask. Instead she asked for Nin, Lanira, Arinna and the Bishop Mattias. She asked if Myra would come too, since it was her birthday as well. VanCleef's smile faded. He picked up one of Idira's books and fiddled with it, saying he didn't expect so.

On the morning of her birthday celebration, Idira woke to find a ribbon-wrapped box waiting on the window seat. She jumped out of bed and pulled the ribbon away, excited. A new silk dress lay within, nestled in yellow tissue paper. She caught her breath, the dress was violet, the same colour as her eyes. With a cry of delight, she pulled it free of its wrappings, ran to the wardrobe and tugged the doors open. Holding the dress up in front her, she gazed at her reflection in the wardrobe's mirror. Little white embroidered rosebuds adorned the square neckline and bodice. Underneath, a pale yellow sash encircled the waist, tied into a huge bow at the back. A flower garden done in intricate embroidery rose up from the hem, the tallest flowers reaching knee height. Pale yellow bees hovered over the flowers. It was the most beautiful of all her dresses by far. Holding her breath, she went back to the box and peeked at the underside of the lid, aching with hope. There it was! In the middle lay the golden embossed sigil of the expensive dress shop in Stormwind where Myra's dresses came from. Idira squealed, delighted and danced round in circles, holding the dress against her chest. Her first dress from the fairytale city of Stormwind!

When it was time to depart, VanCleef came to escort her down the stairs to the waiting carriage. Instead of his best red jacket, he wore a dark blue one over his usual cream shirt and breeches. Idira noticed he wasn't wearing his red silk scarf, either. She asked why he had changed.

"Red would have clashed with the violet," he said with a smile. She took his proffered hand and looked up at him, her heart filled with love. He was more of a father to her than Papa had ever been.

"Thank you for my dress, it is my most favourite of all," she said, her voice catching. A wistful look crossed his face as he adjusted the matching violet ribbon holding her hair up in a ponytail. He nodded, though he didn't say anything. She had a feeling he loved her too, as the daughter he never had. The thought made her feel warm and happy inside. Maybe this was what being in a real family felt like.

After the service at the cathedral, the carriage driver brought them to the Weary Traveller. Lanira was already there, waiting outside the door with Arinna. They smiled and waved at Idira as the horses pulled up. When VanCleef nodded at the women, Idira noticed their smiles faded a little, and no longer reached their eyes. Although she didn't know why, Idira sensed Lanira didn't like VanCleef, and he _had_ threatened to kill Arinna that one time when Myra almost died. She hoped at least for the afternoon, they would be able to get along.

VanCleef stepped down from the carriage and helped Idira down onto the wooden walkway. As the adults greeted each other, Idira bounced on her toes, trying to see past them into the inn. Since moving to Moonbrook, she had never been anywhere outside the house other than the cathedral, Lanira wouldn't even let her go and play by the fountain in the square. Idira looked at the fountain with longing, perhaps she could ask to see the fish after they ate.

Laughter and soft music drifted out from the open double doors of the inn, soon she would eat in the fanciest place in the whole town, dressed like a princess and accompanied by a man who treated her like a cherished daughter. How her life had changed, almost like the story from her fairytale book where an orphaned slave girl found out she was really a long-lost princess from a faraway land.

"Edwin, how good it is to see you," Nin smiled as she approached the little group, holding out her gloved hands to him.

He took her hands in his and flourished a bow, brushing his lips against the back of her ringed fingers.

"My Lady Nin, you honour us with your presence," he said, a perfect gentleman.

"Nin is a real Lady?" Idira asked, astonished. She knew enough from her lessons in decorum that one didn't greet another with the title of Lord or Lady unless they actually were nobility. She had never seen Nin so dressed up before, jewels glittered on her neck and wrists and she wore a little hat with a tiny veil that half covered her face. Her elegant burgundy gown bore the same cut as Myra's expensive dresses from Stormwind.

VanCleef turned to Idira, though his eyes remained on Nin. He arched an eyebrow, curious. "The Lady Nin hasn't told you?"

Nin smiled a mysterious smile and gave a tiny shake of her head.

"Well then," VanCleef continued, "The Lady Nin's mother was sister to Varia Wrynn, once Queen of Consort of Azeroth, mother of King Llane, the Light rest both their souls. The Lady Nin spent much of her childhood in the palace of Stormwind, growing up alongside Prince Llane—at least until Stormwind became a battleground."

Idira gaped. No. It could not be true. Her tutor grew up in the palace with a prince, and was related to a queen? Idira dropped into her deepest curtsey.

"My Lady, I am not worthy of you," she breathed.

"Oh, you are Idira," Nin replied as Idira rose up. Nin held her hand out to Idira, just like she did when they went down the stairs to dine at the big table, so Idira could practice her table manners. "With all my heart, I am so glad to have the privilege of tutoring you. One day, it will be I who will curtsey to you, I should think."

Idira blushed all the way to her hairline as she took Nin's hand. With an indulgent look, VanCleef took Idira's other hand and together they walked into the Weary Traveller to celebrate her day. For the first time in her life, Idira felt like she belonged to a real family. She never wanted the feeling to end.

They swept through the crowded main dining area and up the stairs. Idira caught the stares of the patrons upon them, and particularly upon VanCleef. The looks were not friendly, some of them were even outrightly hostile. She wished they knew what a good man he was. If only she could tell them.

Their host led them to an elegant private dining room all of their own on the second floor, decorated in pale green and cream, its sunlit sash windows overlooking the square. Idira felt a little disappointed they were not going to eat in the main room with all the other people. However, once Nin mentioned over a glass of sparkling wine that King Adamant Wrynn III, Varia's husband, had once dined in this very room while travelling to Darkshire, Idira's disappointment melted away.

Over appetisers of little squares of herbed cheese in oil, menus were perused. Idira chose slices of roast pork with apple dumplings, served with caramelised onions and carrots. For dessert, the chef carried in a fantastic two-tiered marzipan cake, sent for by Nin from the finest bakery in Stormwind. Across its surfaces little marzipan figurines of Idira's favourite fairytale characters had been artfully arranged. Nin had even remembered to include Idira's favorite fairy princess's pink carriage pulled by four rabbits.

Idira looked around at her new friends, singing the birthday song to her, all of them smiling and filled with good wine. Even Lanira and Arinna were smiling for real now, nodding at Bishop Mattias as he clapped his hands, his cheeks and nose red from drinking a whole bottle of port all by himself.

Happiness filled her up so much she couldn't bear it. She didn't deserve all this. It was too good to be true. VanCleef lifted the cake knife from the table and held it out to Idira for her to cut the cake. Blood dripped off it its sharp edge, staining the tablecloth. She cried out and backed away, horrified.

"Her eyes!" Bishop Mattias exclaimed. "They're glowing."

Arinna came into view, her expression kind, but worried. "Idira, can you hear me?"

Idira nodded and bit her lip.

"What do you see?"

She glanced back at the cake knife, wary. It lay on the white linen tablecloth, clean and bloodless. Everyone watched her, their faces betraying a mixture of fear, worry and curiosity. The door opened. Myra walked in.

She was completely drenched, a gorgeous ivory gown Idira had never seen before hung heavy around her. A rock dragged behind her, tied by a rope to her ankle. She tumbled to the floor.

Idira ran to her and shook her shoulders. "Myra! Myra wake up! Why are you all wet?"

Her sister opened her eyes and met Idira's, though she did not see her. "Benny," she whispered. The floor turned to water. Drawn by the weight on her ankle, she slipped down into its inky depths.

Idira screamed, scrabbling at the rug, trying to pull it away.

VanCleef's arms came around her. He pulled her into his lap, and rocked her back and forth, hushing her.

The rustle of gowns filled the air as the women drew closer. The scent of port grew stronger. Bishop Mattias bent down and took her chin in his hand, gentle. His gaze moved over her, inspecting her. He glanced at the others, then around the room.

"Look how the whole room glows the same colour as her eyes, it even overcomes the daylight. What school of magic _is_ this, Arinna?" Bishop Mattias asked, uneasy.

"I confess I do not know for certain," Arinna answered. "I would need time to study her and consult the archives, perhaps a mage might know better, I could—"

"She sees the future," VanCleef interrupted, tightening his hold on Idira, protective. "I don't know how it manifests, but it seems to strike when she is in a state of high emotion. I have seen this happen once before. On that occasion she went temporarily blind."

A hiss of indrawn breaths filled the air.

"Blind! The poor child," Nin murmured, bending over to brush Idira's hair back from her face. "Look how she shivers and quails, certainly whatever she has just seen was most unpleasant in the extreme. We cannot let her suffer like this," she stood up and folded her hands in front of her. "In my experience the only way to overcome the unknown is to learn about it. Edwin, I suggest you permit Arinna to spend time with Idira to study her."

Idira didn't like the way the grown-ups were talking about her as though she wasn't even there. All her hopes that her Light was good but just a different colour were beginning to fade. She looked at Bishop Mattias and asked in a small voice, "Is my Light bad?"

Bishop Mattias took a step back, flustered by her question. "Well, I . . . that is to say, _we_ don't know child. If it frightens you and makes you blind it cannot be good, although perhaps you just need to learn to control it, whatever _it_ is." He turned to the priestess. "Arinna, you are the expert in these matters, what say you?"

Arinna knelt beside Idira, her white gown reflecting a faint echo of Idira's violet light. The priestess smiled, gentle, and tucked a stray hair behind Idira's ear.

"You used to live by the sea, didn't you?" she asked.

Idira nodded, uncertain what that had to do with the violet light. Arinna pressed her hands together and rested the tips of her index fingers against her lips. She fell silent for several moments, thinking.

She looked up at Bishop Mattias. "I have one theory. Further south along the coast in Stranglethorn Vale a sect of the Gurubashi trolls have been trying to resurrect their god Hakkar. Trolls use very dark magic, a combination of shadow and nature, but with the addition of something they call mojo to strengthen it, essence from their loa spirits. They infuse items with this magic. Perhaps one washed ashore and Idira found it. Even just a touch could be enough to—"

"You might wish to have a care what you say next," VanCleef cut her off, his voice tight with warning. He looked meaningfully at Idira.

Lanira touched Idira's shoulder. "Come child, let's go see the fish in the fountain, it was meant to be a surprise for later but I think now is just as good a time as any. I'll have the cake sent to the house. We can take coffee in the dining room. Perhaps your sister might even come down and join us, hmm?"

Idira shook her head. "I want to know the truth. I have dreams too. Most of them are bad, but one was nice. I was all grown up, standing on a balcony in a floating city, it was very beautiful."

Bishop Mattias chuckled, seeking to ease the tension. "A floating city? Well, I never. Children do have the most abundant imaginations." No one else laughed. He went to the table and poured himself another glass of port, his hands shaking a little. He downed the drink in one go.

Arinna looked at VanCleef, waiting for his permission to continue. He nodded. She cleared her throat. "Idira do you remember finding anything unusual on the beach, something not from the sea itself?"

Idira shrugged. "I found a lot of things."

"But, anything strange? Maybe it felt _magical_?"

"I don't remember, things always washed up on the beach, especially after a storm. Papa took everything I found so he could sell it. I was only allowed to keep the sea shells."

Arinna stood up with a sigh. "There is no way to know for certain without either having a description of the item or . . ."

"Or?" Nin prompted, cautious.

"Mr VanCleef, how deep do your connections go?" Arinna asked, changing direction once more.

"Deep enough," he replied, setting Idira on her feet. He rose. "What do you need?"

Arinna drew a deep breath. "A troll."

A horrified silence fell.

"No," VanCleef answered. "It is too dangerous. You will just have to find another way."

"There is no other way. A troll would know how to remove it, if you would be willing to pay the price they asked."

VanCleef crossed his arms over his chest. "And you are _absolutely_ certain this is what afflicts her?"

"I could spend more time studying her if you wish, but I know I will come to the same conclusion."

"Which is?"

"The violet colour is the key," Arinna said, her eyes growing distant as she searched her thoughts. "It is not the colour of arcane, shadow, nature or holy. It suggests a combination of magics, which only the trolls use. Trolls are the most ancient race on Azeroth, they were here even before the elves, and their form of magic is very powerful. Further, they are obsessed with seeing the future, blindness is common for the seers."

Idira thoughts raced ahead, she had troll magic in her? She didn't even know what a troll was, but from the looks on everyone's faces, she gathered they were bad. Even worse than Papa. She tried to think of anything odd she might have picked up from the beach, but nothing special came to mind. Most of it was just debris from shipwrecks, at times figurines and odd jewelry, but nothing that had felt the way the violet light made her feel.

"And if we do nothing?" Nin asked.

Arinna shook her head, unwilling to answer.

Idira didn't like the look on Arinna's face. Maybe she should have gone to look at the fish after all. A thought occurred to Idira.

"Papa says my eyes have always been this colour," she offered, hoping to help. If she was born like this, then it couldn't be troll magic.

All eyes turned to Arinna. VanCleef's hands went to his hips, he looked angry. Arinna spread her hands apart, helpless. "Upon my soul, there can be no other possible explanation."

Lanira stepped up beside Arinna. "When I asked Myra about Idira's eye colour, she said there had been violet light in the room when their mother died. Jac blamed the babe, of course."

Mattias came back from the table, carrying a half-empty glass of port. "Perhaps their mother touched the object and it caused her death. Could the magic carry to the child?"

Arinna shook her head. "I don't know, despite having read everything there is about them in the archives of Stormwind there is very little known about troll magic. But the rest of it fits. It is worth the risk, in my opinion."

A murmuring rose up as they began to discuss the dangers and difficulties, some raised their doubts and others their hopes for finding another explanation. Names were brought up and discarded, even the venerable Lord Uther's was discussed at length. Idira's eyes widened, it must be serious indeed if they thought a man like him should be contacted. More wine was brought in, they emptied one bottle, then another. Idira noticed Bishop Mattias helped himself to more than his fair share.

A waiter came in with a new bottle of wine. VanCleef waved him away.

When the door closed, VanCleef rapped his knuckles on the table. He had shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves during the long discussion. He looked tired. Everyone fell silent.

"Enough," he said, irritable. "Though it will cost me greatly, I see no other alternative but to do as Arinna suggests. A troll will be captured and brought to Klaven's Tower."

He stood up and picked up the cake knife once more. He drove it into the cake's smooth marzipan icing so hard it made the little figurines on either side topple over. Idira bit her lip, watching, heartbroken as he butchered her beautiful cake into pieces.

He pulled a piece out and put it on Idira's plate. He had made a messy job of it, one of the little rabbit figurines had been cut in half. He smiled at her, though he didn't look happy at all.

He served the others and sat down. No one moved. He waved his hand at them, impatient. "Eat the cake," he snapped.

Idira eyed the remains of her once beautiful cake, the figurines hacked and mutilated. Her light had ruined everything. She was bad, and VanCleef was going to have do something very dangerous to get the bad out of her. Her worst fears were confirmed. She _had_ killed Mama just like Myra said. Even now she was still ruining things. She had made VanCleef angry. Papa was right. She was evil.

She pushed her cake away and cried.


	7. Chapter 6

**CHAPTER 6**

* * *

Two months passed before word came from the party sent to capture a troll. The mission had failed. All but one of the party had been killed, and he didn't last much longer than the time it took him to return to Moonbrook and deliver the bad news. Fourteen men, lost.

The night he arrived, Myra, VanCleef and Idira were taking their evening meal in the big dining room. He came in, his injuries wrapped in stiff, blood-stained linens, reeking of infection. He pulled off his grimy red bandana and mopped his face, his hand shaking as he told them how their party had been taken by surprise almost as soon as they entered the vine-infested jungle of Stranglethorn Vale. It had been a massacre. The machete wielding trolls had made quick work of the others, their hunting tigers growling as they fed on the fallen, oblivious to the agonised screams of those still living. He had managed to survive by throwing himself into a deep, rocky ravine before the tigers got to him. The trolls had left him for dead.

VanCleef said nothing, but Idira could tell he was very angry. He put his wine glass down with great care, got up and walked out of the room, leaving his unfinished dinner behind; his silver cutlery askew on his plate, a piece of meat still speared on his fork. He went up the stairs, his booted feet hard against the wooden steps. A heartbeat later a door slammed.

Waiting at the dining room's arched doorway, their arms crossed over their chests, Myra's guards eyed each other, their thoughts difficult to read, but it didn't look like they approved of VanCleef's plan to capture a troll. _No gold in it_ , Idira had heard one of his men mutter earlier that day when she was in the kitchen collecting apples for the horses.

She put down her fork, her appetite gone. Even if they were bad men, they had died because of her. It was her fault. Before she could stop herself, she imagined them being eaten by tigers. She looked at Myra, hoping for reassurance.

Her sister returned to her food, unconcerned.

"Fourteen less of them," she said, smug. Only a little of the country dialect still clung to her words, softening the sharpest edges of her now unmistakably noble accent. She looked up at Idira, her eyes cold. "That's a good girl."

Despite her hatefulness, Myra sounded terribly elegant, like a real lady. At first, Idira thought Myra looked even prettier when she spoke with her new accent, it was like her words finally matched the rest of her. But as the number of days until the six month deadline shortened, and her hopes of being reunited with Benny dwindled, Myra changed.

Her beautiful words became weapons, used to inflict injury. She changed from melancholic and withdrawn to angry and bitter, prone to temper tantrums. She ordered gowns by the dozen from Stormwind, wearing them once before tossing them into her fireplace to watch them burn. Idira couldn't bear it. She would cry as Myra paced the sumptuous bedroom, barefoot, a glass of wine in her hand, wearing nothing more than her corset and knickers, laughing, vindictive, as the poor gown succumbed to the hungry flames.

Her dinner finished, Myra stood up. She raised her glass to her mouth, her gaze drifting down her guards' bodies, lingering on their crotches. She sipped her wine and licked her lips, slow and seductive. "Perhaps you shall be chosen next for this fool's errand of his. If _I_ was a tiger, I would eat you." She laughed, brittle, amused by her little joke. Her guards glared at back her, their hatred tangible. Ignoring them, she poured herself another glass of wine and sank down onto VanCleef's chair, gesturing to the waiting manservant to serve her dessert there.

Idira pushed her chair back and left. Myra was getting drunk again, things would only get worse from now on. When she passed out, VanCleef would have to carry her to bed. He didn't want anyone else to touch her. Although lately, almost every night went the same: after a drunken dinner filled with Myra's angry words and accusations, VanCleef would drag her from her chair up to her room, his face black like a thundercloud before the storm. Even with her hands over her ears, Idira could still hear the sounds of their fighting; the crash of porcelain against the walls, the heavy thuds of furniture toppling over. It was just like living with Papa again, only this time Myra was Papa.

VanCleef's voice would carry, loud, angry and fraught with frustration as he cursed, bellowing if he wasn't a man of honour he would take her there and then and teach her a lesson she wouldn't soon forget. Idira wished he would just teach her that lesson, whatever it was. She just wanted the fighting to stop.

Once when Idira was playing in the stable yard she heard VanCleef's men talking about Myra as they carried broken furniture from her room to a waiting wagon, shaking their heads as they threw the splintered pieces away, calling her a demon woman. Later, while they played cards in the tack room she heard them laying bets whether VanCleef would crack and take Myra to his bed before the six months was up. One scoffed and said the only thing wrong with her was she needed a good, hard fucking. The others nodded, grim and threw their gold down, betting VanCleef would do it that week. He didn't.

* * *

Two weeks after the failed attempt to catch a troll, Idira sat on Myra's bed, watching Lanira help her sister get ready for dinner. Clad in an ivory corset and loose silk knickers, Myra trailed her fingers through the gowns in her wardrobe, bored. Lanira pulled out a gorgeous emerald green one and held it up, an eyebrow raised questioningly. Myra's lips curved into a sneer. Quick as a cat, she snatched it from Lanira and strode to the fireplace, wadding it up to throw into the flames. Lanira cried out and caught it just in time. She sheltered it against her chest, her eyes sparking, furious.

"Good people are going without food to pay for these gowns," she snapped, her body shaking, betraying the depth of her outrage. "After all this time, how can you still believe the gold for them comes from VanCleef's purse?"

Myra shrugged, uncaring. "So they suffer, what is it to me? I suffer too. If they are paying for these gowns, then less gold is pouring into his cause. Sooner or later it hurts him."

Lanira glared at Myra, she shoved the dress down onto the chaise beside her and went to Myra, her jaw clenched. She waved her hand around the opulent room "You call _this_ suffering? Even if he is the most depraved creature in bed, whatever VanCleef could do to you pales in comparison to what others must endure under his iron fist. Stop burning the dresses, you stupid, stubborn girl."

"You dare speak to me so?" Myra seethed, hectic spots of colour blossoming on her cheeks. She went to the chaise and ran her fingers over the dress, her eyes narrow, taunting Lanira. She grabbed it and bolted to the fireplace, the gown's train trailing behind her. Lanira lunged and caught hold of the train, pulling Myra back. A loud rip filled the room as the bodice tore free of the skirt. Lanira looked down at the ruined gown, her chest rising and falling.

"No," she whispered, her eyes bright with tears. Myra shot her a look of triumph. Lanira screamed, furious and slapped Myra so hard, Myra stumbled backwards, her back slamming against the fireplace pillar.

Stunned, Myra's eyes flitted back and forth, seeing but not seeing. Her whole body trembled. Lanira went after her, reaching out to her, trying to calm her. Myra began to quake, her fingers writhed up into her hair. She took hold of her head and screamed. Her cry agonised, despairing, hopeless. The scream stopped. She stood there, panting, like a hunted animal. Her eyes went to her dressing table, she ran to it, frantic and swept its contents onto the floor. The little crystal jars of ointments, oils and perfumes tumbled onto the tiles in front of the fireplace, smashing into hundreds of tiny shards. The sweet scent of roses overwhelmed the room.

She started screaming again, incoherent, throwing chairs and cushions at the walls. Even though the dressing table must have weighed a great deal, she lifted it and heaved it across the room. It smashed against the door, gouging a hole into the bottom panel. Shouts and bellows came from outside. Pounding feet ran down the hallway. Barefoot, she stumbled over the broken jars, oblivious to the blood coming from her feet, her eyes wild, yelling King Wrynn was coming to rescue her. She clawed at the curtains, jerking on them, trying to pull them down, hysterical.

Idira ran to the corner, terrified. Lanira huddled over her, her arms around her, trying to protect her. Someone was at the door, shouting, trying to get it to open. A heavy thud hit the door, making it wobble. Another followed, then another. The door burst open, snapping off its hinges. The broken table scudded free. VanCleef stormed in wearing nothing but breeches, boots and a long red robe that hung open, revealing his bare chest. He must have been in his study, working on one of his engineering designs, as was his usual habit in the evenings. His face black with rage, he strode across the room and grabbed hold of Myra's arms, restraining her. She struggled against him, panting, her breasts straining to escape the confines of her corset. His hands tightened on her, digging into her flesh. She bellowed as the pain hit her. He shook her, hard, making her hair tumble free from its clips and pins. It cascaded down her back, a riot of curled, messy tresses. She looked beautiful in a completely different way, like a wild thing, desperate to be tamed.

"Enough!" he roared. "This ends now." He turned and threw her onto the bed so hard she bounced. She scuttled away from him, her feet leaving smears of blood across the white linen cover. He came after her and climbed over her, menacing. His fingers wrapped around her wrists, pinning her arms above her head.

"I still have six weeks," she plead, squealing and kicking as he gathered her wrists together in one hand, and began unfastening the front of her corset with the other. "You promised!"

"To the Void with my promise," he said, dangerous. His fingers finished their work, her corset popped open, setting her breasts free. He groaned and took hold of her jaw, his eyes capturing hers, filled with warning. Holding her still, he kissed her, fierce, possessive. Her struggles slowed, then stopped altogether. She moaned. Still restrained by him, she lifted her head and kissed him back, hungry, her hips arching towards his.

He broke off the kiss, and looked up at Lanira, his eyes hotter than a blacksmith's forge. "Get out."

Lanira scrambled to her feet and hurried out the gaping, destroyed doorway, Idira trotting after her to keep up. Once in the hallway, Idira looked back, Myra's guards moved into place, their big bodies barricading the view. Idira expected to hear her sister start fighting again with VanCleef, but all she heard was soft moans and sighs.

Later, as Idira coloured in her new colouring book, she heard muted cries that didn't sound like fighting at all. And later, as she ate her dinner on a tray in her room, their soft voices drifted up from the stairwell as they moved from Myra's ruined bedroom to VanCleef's. His door slammed. Quiet fell. In the night she woke to the sound of their cries again, louder this time. Definitely not fighting. She smiled and turned over onto her side, watching the moon give way to the coming dawn. Silence fell. VanCleef must have finished the lesson. Peace had finally come to the big house. Idira closed her eyes, relieved. She slept, and dreamed of nothing.

* * *

The next morning was the holy day, Idira went down to the dining room for breakfast. VanCleef and Myra didn't come down, nor did they come down to take the carriage to the cathedral. Idira went alone and sat with Lanira instead. When Idira came back full of stories about the fish she had finally seen in the fountain, no one was there to talk to her. The door to VanCleef's room remained closed, with two of his henchmen standing outside, trying not to smirk. Lanira hurried her past and up to her room where she stayed with her for the afternoon, colouring with her and playing Idira's favourite game, Hearthstone.

At high tea, Nin arrived for a visit. She opened the door and peered in, wearing a wide-brimmed hat decorated with purple and green feathers. Her dark blue gown rustled as she came in and took a seat by the window. She made small talk about the unseasonable cool weather as she pulled the pins from her hat and lifted it off. Idira could feel Nin's eyes on her. She continued with her colouring, trying her best to look uninterested in them, while secretly wondering what Nin wanted to say.

Tea and cake arrived. The women sat in the window seat sipping their tea, looking down at the square in companionable silence. Nin sighed and set her teacup back into its saucer.

"Edwin's absence at the service was noted today," she murmured. "You know how people like to talk. I do hope he is not unwell."

"According to the servants, he has not left his bed all day," Lanira answered, vague.

"Indeed? How unlike him. Perhaps I should call on him." Nin set aside her saucer, making to leave. Lanira took hold of her wrist and shook her head, a small smile playing on her lips. Nin drew in a sharp breath.

"Is it . . . No! Can it be? Have they . . . finally come to an understanding?"

Lanira nodded, her cheeks colouring. "Something like that."

Nin clasped her hands together in front of her, pleased. "Oh thank the Light, I had almost given up hope for him. I rather suspected Myra would hold out to the bitter end. How did he ever change her mind?"

Lanira looked out the window, her face hardening a little. "She drove them both to their wit's end, and it just came about, as these things tend to do."

Nin leaned forward, perplexed. "I don't understand."

Lanira met Nin's eyes. "Let's just say, I rather think VanCleef has met his match in Myra. That girl is going to break his heart one day."

Nin fell silent, disapproval emanating from her. Lanira cleared her throat and lifted up the teapot, pouring them both more tea. "I have been hearing rumors from Stormwind," she said, lowering her voice. "That the King has not recovered from the Queen's death and the city is being run by another, the Lady Katrana Prestor."

Nin nodded, brusque, stirring milk into her tea. "I have heard the same. My contacts within the palace have confirmed the truth of it. King Varian remains in his apartments surrounded by Tiffin's belongings. He doesn't wash or take exercise, neither will he see their infant son, Anduin. He simply broods." She tapped her spoon against the side of the tea cup and set it aside. "I heard he sleeps with Tiffin's dress on the bed beside him, holding it as though she is still there." She tutted and shook her head. "So tragic, for one so young."

Neither of them said anything for awhile. Idira kept colouring thinking about the poor King, holding the dress of his dead Queen in his arms as he slept. It made her think of her fairytales. So many of them were sad. From the corner of her eye she saw Lanira rise up to check on her. Idira kept colouring, studiously feigning her interest in her work. Lanira sank back down, satisfied.

"And his advisor," Lanira asked, cautious. "This Lady Prestor, can she be trusted in his stead?"

"For what?" Nin asked, sharp.

Lanira lifted her teacup to her lips. "Many in Westfall are simple folk who have become caught in the crosshairs of VanCleef's disagreement with Stormwind," she answered, careful. "Certainly there are more than a few who fear reprisals from the King's army. Not all were masons or owed money."

Nin scoffed. "Then they can put their minds at ease, for so long as the King is in this state, Westfall is of no interest to Stormwind. Which is of course to Edwin's favour, granting him much needed time to organise and gather resources."

"Hmm," Lanira murmured, noncommittal. She touched one of the feathers of Nin's hat, full of admiration, enquiring where she had purchased it. Diverted, Nin described her recent visit to the magical city of Dalaran far to the north, where the most famous milliner of all Azeroth kept his boutique. Idira almost stopped colouring as she listened, fascinated, to Nin's vivid descriptions of the city's soaring spires and fashionable shopping district where only the incredibly wealthy and privileged could enter.

Warming to the conversation, Nin opened her tasselled pouch and pulled out a flask of alcohol, tipping a little into both Lanira's teacup and her own before adding more tea. She talked of Dalaran's fashions, comparing them to the current styles in Stormwind. They emptied the flask little by little, whiling away the afternoon, companionable. The sun was low in the sky when Nin clapped her hands together declaring she had just remembered a delicious tale she had been told by her milliner in Dalaran of a young mage cursed by his mentor with the looks of an old man. Apparently this young man had saved the world by closing a magical dark portal that led to Azeroth from the world of the orcs, called Draenor. But in an interesting twist, he had been forced to remain on the other side, never to return. An incredible sacrifice. She had since found out when VanCleef had been given the work to rebuild Stormwind, he had received an order to erect a statue to the heroic mage in Stormwind's Valley of Heroes, to commemorate him for all time.

She paused, tapping her fingers against her chin. "Oh, what was his name again? Ah yes, there it is," she snapped her fingers. "Khadgar. By all accounts a charismatic, powerful man. I should rather liked to have met him."

She left soon after, smiling and stumbling a little from having emptied her little silver flask. Lanira went to fetch dinner for Idira, since it didn't look like she would be summoned to eat in the dining room. Once she was alone, Idira opened her notebook and wrote down the name of the heroic mage. Khadgar. She stared at the letters of his name, sensing the vast distance that separated them. He was living on another world, right now. Up until today Stormwind seemed an impossible distance, now she realised she would have adjust her perceptions. She wished she could understand the bigness of it, but she couldn't. He was out there somewhere beyond the sea, the sky and the sun, beyond even the night and the stars. She felt crushed by the immensity of it and sad at the same time. She would never meet him, the man who saved Azeroth. She sighed and picked out a new picture. She would colour it in for him. Maybe one day she would get to visit Stormwind and she could leave it by his statue. Maybe in his heart, from far away he would sense her gratitude. She hoped so.

* * *

That evening at bedtime, VanCleef came to see her. She was sitting up in her bed, reading the fairytale of the King who lost his Queen to the sea, where an evil sea sorceress cursed the queen to live forever without love because she was jealous of the queen's beauty. Every night the queen would sing to her king from the sea's rocks outside his castle, hoping he would come to her and hold her in his arms, breaking the terrible spell. But he was cursed too, and he couldn't hear her. Years passed, but she never gave up hope he would hear her plaintive song. One evening he appeared on his balcony with his new queen, kissing her. Broken-hearted, the cursed queen slipped down from the rocks and swam away to the end of world where she found a deserted island. Long after he died, she continued to sing to him, dreaming of the days when he had once been hers, until the sorceress had mercy on her and cut out the queen's heart, killing her forever. It was the saddest story Idira knew and she loved it. She was on the last page when VanCleef came in.

He came to her, smiling and relaxed, wearing his red robe tied closed over his breeches. He pulled up a chair and took the book from her. Fishing a pair of reading glasses from the pocket of his robe, he read the rest of the story aloud. He was very quiet when he finished. He set the book aside.

"Is this your favourite story?" he asked.

Idira considered. "It's one of them, I like a lot of them."

"It's a very sad story," he said as he helped Idira to settle down under the covers. He glanced back at the leather-bound tome. "These are fairytales meant for grown ups. They are meant to teach us about important things like love, fidelity and honour through the art of storytelling."

"I know, but I like them anyway. Is Myra better now?"

VanCleef smiled, his eyes softening as his thoughts turned inward. "She is."

"I guess your lesson worked."

VanCleef stared at her, uncomprehending.

"You told her you were going to teach her a lesson she wouldn't forget, you know, when you were shouting at her?" Idira prompted.

Realisation flickered across his face. He burst out laughing. Pulling his glasses off, he wiped the tears from his eyes. He shook his head, bent over and kissed her forehead.

"Indeed it did. Sleep well, little one." He tucked the blankets up tight under her chin and gave Blackie an affectionate pat on the head. The cat ignored him.

Smiling, he snuffed out the candles and closed the door, soft. She heard him start laughing again as he went down the stairs. She wondered what was so funny. Adults were so strange sometimes. His door opened and closed, soon after she heard her sister laughing with him, they both sounded happy. Idira snuggled down into her pillows, warm and cosy. Never in her life had she heard Myra laugh like that. It must have been a really good lesson.

* * *

The next day, after her own lessons with Nin were finished, Idira went to see Myra. For the first time in months, no guards stood outside her sister's room. Idira peeked inside, curious. The ruined door and dressing table had been taken away. A new dressing table stood where the old one had been, though its surface lay bare of the usual toiletries and perfumes. The bloodstained bed cover had been changed, too. Apart from the missing door and the toiletries, it was as if the horrible events of two evenings ago had never happened. She left and went to VanCleef's room hoping to find Myra there.

Two of VanCleef's men stood outside, looking mean as usual. Blades on their hips, arms and thighs reflected the light from the candlelit chandelier. Idira hung back by the landing's banister and pointed at the door. One of them turned and knocked.

"Yes?" Myra answered.

"Kid wants in," VanCleef's henchman said, eyeing Idira.

Several moments passed. The door opened. Myra wore a lavender dressing gown, tied loose at the waist, her hair only half pinned up. She smiled and beckoned Idira inside. Idira took a deep breath and bolted past the two men into the room.

"We ain't _that_ scary, kid," the one who had knocked scoffed.

Myra leaned against the door, giving the men an eyeful of her silken undergarments.

"Yes, you are," she said as her eyes slid over his array of blades. "Next time, give her more space to pass."

"Aye, whatever the Lady wishes," he answered, his eyes dark as they took in the curve of her breasts.

She smirked at him and closed the door, rolling her eyes as she turned the key. Idira followed her sister across the enormous, opulent room to a pair of wooden sliding doors, painted white. Myra pushed them open. They slid into the walls. Idira went in and turned around, astonished. It was a room _just_ for clothes. A grand window faced onto the square, its wooden shutters folded back, illuminating the space in soft evening light. Along the walls, sections of rails held VanCleef's jackets, breeches and shirts. Another wall contained shelves holding his collection of polished leather boots, held upright with wooden boot shapers. Beneath the rails, drawers held his scarves, handkerchiefs, and undergarments. In between the sections, mirrors stretched from the floor to the ceiling. In the middle stood a large square divan covered in dark blue velvet. A pile of Myra's dresses lay strewn over it. Idira found a corner free of the cascading garments. She sat, and looked around, enchanted.

"Nice, isn't it," Myra said as she held up one of the dresses and gazed at herself in the mirror.

Idira nodded. "It's like a fairytale, and VanCleef's the prince."

Myra turned from the mirror and chose another gown, a dark blue one with gold embroidery. She held it up, turning from side to side. "What about this one?" she asked.

Idira eyed it, she hadn't seen that one before. It was very nice. Myra glanced into the bedroom. Idira looked back. Maybe her sister was thinking of destroying it. She stood up, wary, and edged towards the door. "Why? Are you going to burn it?"

Myra cheeks coloured a little. She shook her head. "No. My dress burning days are done."

"Oh? That's good." Idira sat back down. "Why?"

Myra sank down onto the divan and toyed with one of the golden tassels on her dressing gown. She sighed. "All those days and nights I waited—longed—for my old life to return, to go back to Benny and fulfill our dream of living on our little farm. All those nights spent holding out on the hope King Wrynn would come and make everything right before the six months ended. Benny asked me to live, but he _left_ me here knowing if the King didn't come I would become VanCleef's lover."

"Benny didn't have a choice," Idira said, quiet, unwilling to let her sister blame him for her tantrums.

Myra stood up, agitated, and began to pace, her beautiful reflection following her in the half dozen mirrors. "I thought if I could push VanCleef away by being difficult this would end, but all I did was make him want me more. Every fight we had made me feel something for him too, something I can't explain. I started to _want_ him. It's not love, but now that it's finally happened, I can't bring myself to say I regret what we've begun." She stopped pacing and glanced at Idira, shamefaced.

"I still love Benny, but he is far away and VanCleef is here. It's just easier this way, to go along with him, instead of fighting and being angry all the time. And . . . it's not so bad after all. He's . . . very attentive." Her blush deepened and she bit her lip. A little secretive smile crept across her lips.

Idira raised her eyebrows. She really had no idea what her sister was talking about. She loved Benny but she liked letting VanCleef kiss her? Adults made no sense at all.

She pointed at a dark green gown, near the bottom of the pile. "That one is my favourite."

Myra blinked and shook her head, pulling her attention back to the present. She slid the dress out from under the others and held it up in front of the mirror. She smiled, wearing faraway look in her eyes. "This one it is then," she whispered as she let her robe fall to the floor.

That night, when they went down to dinner, it was like they were a real family. Myra her Mama and VanCleef her Papa, they drank wine together, their foreheads touching as they laughed and talked. Even after two bottles of wine they never fought once.

After dessert, VanCleef played a game of Hearthstone with Idira. She suspected he let her win, but she didn't complain, she liked to win. Afterwards, Myra helped her get ready for bed. Her sister lay down beside her, as beautiful as a princess. She looked up at the canopy as VanCleef read a bedtime story from Idira's book of grown-up fairytales, his dark eyes catching Myra's as he turned the pages.

As they left, VanCleef wrapped his arm around Myra's waist and pulled her back against him, his dark eyes smouldering as he brushed his lips against the nape of her neck. Myra made a little sound, filled with longing, and clung to him. They slipped out. The door closed. A pause. Myra's gown rustled. She gave a little cry of delight.

"Don't drop me," she said in a teasing tone.

"Never," VanCleef returned, his voice low. He strode away. His booted footsteps moving down the stairs, determined.

Idira sat up and dragged her fairytale book from the bedside table, the full moon granting more than enough light.

"The next picture I see is what is going to happen to Myra and VanCleef," she whispered as she opened the book.

It was the King on his sinking ship, desperately trying to save his drowning queen, his face filled with anguish as she slipped free of his fingers into the ocean's depths. Idira slammed the book closed and tried again. The pages fell open to the same picture.

She put the book back.

"It's just a stupid book, it doesn't mean anything," she told Blackie, who sat watching her, swishing her tail back and forth. Idira lay back down and stared at the bed's canopy. It would be ok. Everything would be ok. The book didn't know. She closed her eyes and tried not to think of the vision she had had at the birthday dinner of Myra drowning.

It took a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

After the first failed attempt to capture a troll, Idira found out VanCleef had sent Papa to lead the second party. Papa had chosen trackers, hunters and a half dozen rogues expert at using stealth and paralysing poisons. Lanira said to Nin the men were probably more afraid of Jac than the trolls. They laughed a little, but neither of them sounded amused.

Two weeks later the message arrived. Papa had been successful. A captured troll waited for them at Klaven's Tower. A few days passed and nothing more was said, although VanCleef was absent from dinner for two nights. The day before the holy day, Idira woke to be told her lessons had been cancelled. After taking breakfast in her room, Lanira took Idira down the stairs to the entrance hall, holding her hand tighter than usual. Outside the open front door, a closed coach drawn by four sturdy black horses stood waiting on the cobbled stones of the square. One of the horses shook its mane and pawed the cobbles, restless.

Arinna waited by the table in the entrance hall, wearing a dark cloak over her white dress, its hood pulled up over her hair. A leather satchel filled with books sat on the floor by her feet. From within the shadows of her hood, she smiled as Idira arrived, though her smile did nothing to conceal the anxiety tingeing her features.

Booted footsteps approached from the inner courtyard. VanCleef came into view, his black leather armour gleaming in the morning light, a red silk scarf tied tight against his neck. A pair of curved swords hung from the belt strapped to his hips, the swords' grips wrapped in strips of red leather. Four men followed him, covered head to toe in leather armour, their arms, legs, backs and hips bristling with bladed weapons.

"Let's go," he said, gesturing to his men to move out. Upstairs, a door opened. Myra came halfway down the stairs, watching him leave, her expression enigmatic. He glanced up at her as he passed, his eyes losing their hardness just for a heartbeat. He turned and swept out the open door, his men filing out after him, silent but for the soft creak of their leather armour.

Lanira knelt beside Idira, her face tight. "You are in good hands," she said, tucking away a stray hair from Idira's ponytail. "Go with Arinna. I will see you at dinner."

Idira trailed after the priestess into the carriage, uneasy. She still didn't know what was happening. She thought about asking Arinna, but the priestess had withdrawn into the shadows of her hood, her lips moving as she whispered prayers for protection. VanCleef remained outside for several moments conferring with his men and the driver before joining them in the coach, his face hard as he looked out the window, surveying the quiet square.

Two of his men climbed up with the driver, the other two jumped up onto the ledge at the back of the coach as it pulled away. The horses moved at a smart trot until they cleared the outer limits of Moonbrook. The driver cracked his whip and the horses surged forward, cantering, the coach rocking rhythmically, like a doll's cradle. VanCleef sat on the edge of the facing seat, his hands on the grips of his swords, vigilant. Idira looked over his shoulder out the back window. The road's dust mushroomed out in thick billows, obscuring what was left of the town's skyline. No one spoke. Idira sat back and gazed out the window beside her for awhile, curious, but there wasn't much to see. The landscape was much the same as at the farm, desiccated, barren. Boring. She leaned her head against the cushioned head rest and tried to sleep. She must have dozed, because when the horses slowed it felt as though only minutes had passed. When she asked, Arinna murmured they had been travelling for just over two hours.

Idira rubbed the sleep from her eyes and peered out the window. Looming over a dusty plain, in front of a range of steep, dry hills, a great solitary tower stood, constructed of massive blocks of stone. Octagonal in shape, it looked to be at least three stories high, the eaves of its sloping tiled roof crammed with deserted rooks nests. Outside the stone steps to its narrow entrance, wagons, stacks of supplies, tents and fires betrayed the evidence of a large camp. The coach pulled to a halt. VanCleef's men jumped down, prowling beside the coach, alert, defensive. A tall, lean man came out of the tower's doorway, dressed in black. Papa. Idira began to shake, terror taking hold of her.

VanCleef opened the door and stepped out, murmuring to Arinna to wait with Idira as he closed the door. He made his way through the camp, moving like a cat, his hands resting on the grips of his swords. His movements reminded Idira of the first time she had seen him, when she had come upon him sparring in the inner courtyard, his swords moving so fast they blurred. She was glad he was on her side. He would protect her from Papa.

Arinna's fingers came around her hand. The priestess gave Idira a reassuring squeeze, though her eyes remained fixed on the two men conversing at the bottom of the stairs.

Idira couldn't hear what they were saying over the conversations of the men lounging by their campfires, but Papa looked at ease, his hands resting on his hips. He nodded and jerked his head at the tower. They talked a little more, both of them calm, they even laughed once. VanCleef half-turned toward the coach, indicating who was waiting within. Papa looked up, sharp, his eyes narrowing. Anger flashed across his lean face. He spat and took a step forward, his hands curling into fists.

VanCleef's gloved hand came up, rough against Papa's chest, holding him back. Papa pushed against him, shouting that Idira was _his_ daughter, not VanCleef's. He shoved himself free and strode towards the coach, murder in his eyes. Idira cried out, scrabbling at the handle of the door, trying to open it. It was locked. Panicking, she looked back. VanCleef lunged after Papa and grabbed his tunic in his fist, a stiletto's blade flashed out from within VanCleef's tunic. He pressed its point against Papa's neck. A spot of blood blossomed outward. The men in the camp fell silent. One by one they came to their feet. Papa scoffed and lifted up his hands, surrendering. VanCleef stepped back and sheathed the slim weapon into the front of his leather tunic, his eyes dark, angry.

He nodded at two of his men, sending them with Papa to the other side of the camp. Papa threw himself down onto a supply crate, rigid. His eyes moved back to the coach. He glared at it, waiting.

VanCleef strode to the coach, unlocked the door and jerked it open. He held out his hand.

"Idira, stay close to me. Arinna, leave the books. We may need to leave quickly."

"But—" Arinna protested, as she pulled the satchel to her.

VanCleef reached in and took hold of Arinna's wrist, pulling her out, rough. "Leave the damn books. Those men are loyal to Jac. If he decides to stir things up, I want you both to run to the coach and return to Moonbrook without me." He shot a look at the driver, who nodded, grim.

Arinna left the coach, trembling and clutching her cloak tight shut, defensive. VanCleef lifted Idira out, positioning her to his left side. Arinna huddled up against his right. His other two men moved forward to flank them.

"Don't look at them, and don't listen to them," he said to Arinna, who had begun to quake in terror. "I won't let them hurt you."

He led them to the tower, ignoring Papa's thugs as they inched closer to him, fingering their knives, watching them, menacing. They leered at Arinna, making indecent remarks about her body and what they would like to do to her. Idira wished she could cover her ears. Is that what grown ups did to each other? It sounded horrible. She heard Arinna stifling a sob.

"Steady Arinna," VanCleef said, low, "don't let them see your fear. We're almost there."

Idira kept her eyes on Papa. He lounged back against the stack of supplies, watching her with hooded eyes as she entered the tower. As she went up the stone steps he smiled, slow, like he knew a secret. Idira shuddered. Malevolence emanated from him. She hurried into the tower's shadows tripping on the hem of her dress in her haste to escape his stare.

Once through the narrow passage and inside the tower, a thick gloom descended upon them. A single smelly tallow candle flickered in the draught, sending up little gouts of black smoke. A large cage stood in the middle of the room, made of iron. It looked old, like it had been there a long time. Cobwebs drifted, loose between its bars, rippling in the dry air. Something big hunched down inside the cage, its breathing ragged. It sounded like it was in pain.

VanCleef pulled his swords from their scabbards and approached the cage, wary.

"Can you understand me?" he asked, eyeing the thing. Arinna crept forward, pulling her hood back, her curiosity overcoming her fear of the men outside.

The creature shifted, groaning. VanCleef raised his swords, preparing to strike. It lifted its head. Idira stared at it, incredulous. She had no idea such a creature could exist. It had huge tusks coming out of its mouth, curving upwards, like a boar's. Its yellow eyes roamed over VanCleef, then Arinna, inspecting them, unimpressed. It snorted and turned its head sharp, to look straight at Idira. It came to its feet, slow. Its muscled pale blue skin shone with sweat. It turned back to VanCleef, a wry smile curved its lips.

"Dere be tings ya be wantin' from Unambi. Dis much I be knowin'," he answered, his voice deep and musical.

Idira stepped forward, noticing he wore nothing apart from a tattered leather loincloth. Dozens of injuries covered his body, some of them crusted over, others looked new and still seeped blood.

"He's hurt," she said. She touched Arinna's hand. "Help him. Please."

Arinna looked at VanCleef, uncertain. He shook his head, terse. "Not yet."

Unambi chuckled, and edged closer to the bars, wrapping his strange hands around them. Just two fat fingers and a thumb. Thick, nasty bruises covered them. " _Ya_ don' be trustin' _me_? I be da one in dis cage, mon."

"How is it you can speak our language?" VanCleef asked, suspicious. He gestured at Arinna. "She has been studying your language for months in preparation."

Unambi shrugged and tilted his head at the doorway. "Dey like ta talk. Unambi be listenin' all da time. Dere been plenty a time ta be learnin'."

VanCleef took a step closer, intrigued. "Do they know you can understand them?"

The troll lifted his upper lip, sneering. "Nah, mon. I been waitin' for da boss. Da one who likes ta capture trolls. And dere ya be, da reason for Unambi's sufferin'. Ya should know dat man out dere in black intends ta kill ya. I wanted ta be da one ta tell ya."

VanCleef's eyes darted to the doorway. "I can handle him."

"But can ya be handlin' dem others dat be waitin' up dere?" Unambi hissed, raising his eyes to the floors above.

VanCleef nodded at one of his men keeping guard at the doorway, indicating to check the upper floors. The man crouched and stealthed. VanCleef waited, tense. No one said anything. Only a minute passed, but it felt like forever. The man returned, his face ashen.

"How many?" VanCleef asked, low.

"Twelve," came the reply, "but I sensed more, stealthed."

VanCleef clenched his jaw, his gaze moved to Arinna and Idira, his expression bleak. "They won't have you, I swear it."

Arinna sank down onto her knees, her eyes glassy. Idira didn't understand, what did he mean? It sounded both good and bad at the same time.

"Unambi can help ya, if ya be in da mood ta be makin' a deal," Unambi said, quiet.

"What do you want?" VanCleef asked, taut.

"Ya let Unambi out and I be makin' sure ya get out alive. Dere be a few a dem I been longin' ta hurt. Wit dat woman's healin' on me, ya chances be real good."

VanCleef looked at Arinna. "Do it."

She came to her feet, shaking, but she obeyed him. She whispered the words of healing, the light building within her hands. It shot out her, chaotic and messy, her panic and fear amplifying the flow of her healing light.

VanCleef kept his eyes on the bottom of the ramp leading to the upper floors, flexing his fingers on the grips of his swords. He gestured to his men to hold their positions at the door. Idira didn't know where to go, or what to do. She sensed death surrounding her, enclosing her, covering her like a blanket. She could feel the violet light coming again, building up within her. She shook her head, trying to fight it. It couldn't happen now. Not now, when it would ruin everything.

Arinna slumped over, the light fading, her work finished.

A shout came from outside. Papa's men burst through the doorway, VanCleef's men cut them down, one by one, efficient. Their backs turned, they spasmed as wires snapped around their necks, garrotting them, ambushed by stealthed rogues. The rest leapt down the ramp, brandishing their weapons. VanCleef fought, grim, protecting her and Arinna, his swords a blur as he cut his way through the men.

"Da key be dere!" Unambi bellowed at Idira, pointing at a key ring hanging from a hook on the wall. Choking back her terror, she scrambled over Arinna and grabbed the keys. She threw them at the troll, who caught them and opened the lock. He burst free, laughing, triumphant. He leapt into the fray, swinging his massive arm back and forth, flinging the men against the walls, their bones shattering from the force of impact.

Violence and death surrounded her. The shrieks of the dying filled her ears. She couldn't get away. She was trapped and was going to die. She felt the violet light surging through her. The bad magic was coming, and she couldn't stop it. She screamed, holding her hands to her head, closing her eyes tight shut, resisting as hard as she could.

"By da blood o' Hakkar!" Unambi roared, invigorated. "Da power comin' from dat girl. She be pure mojo!"

Idira kept her eyes closed, if she didn't look at the light, maybe it would go away. Her whole body vibrated. Tingling sensations rippled through her. Something was happening. Something big. Pain scorched through her, she felt as though she was being torn apart.

She opened her eyes. Darkness. She had gone blind again.

"Arinna!" she wailed, reaching out, terrified. She felt the priestess's hands come around her torso, holding her tight. The fighting drew closer. VanCleef and the troll shouted warnings to each other as they backed up, overwhelmed by the press of their attackers. Someone screamed, agonised. Blood sprayed over Idira, hot and sticky. The metallic stink of it filled her nostrils. She clung to Arinna, who wept, begging the Light to save them.

A deep throbbing pulse rose inside Idira, rising in sickening waves until she couldn't hear anything except its deep resonating thrum. She felt like she was dying, she couldn't breathe, she couldn't see, she didn't even feel real anymore. The thrum escalated to a deafening roar. Violet light consumed her. She felt her body lurch, tugged forward at a great speed. A snapping sensation burned through her. Her sight returned. She sat up, disoriented, finding herself outside the tower, halfway between the coach and the tower. VanCleef and Unambi turned around, astonished, lowering their weapons. Arinna recovered first. She scrambled to her feet.

"The coach! Run!"

Papa's men staggered out of the tower, hollering with pain, clawing at their eyes. Papa came out last, blood streaming from his eyes, his face black with rage.

They ran. Idira couldn't keep up. She stumbled over a rock and fell, skinning her knees. Unambi turned back and hauled her up, carrying her in the crook of his arm. "Don' ya be worryin', Unambi's got ya."

The coach driver lay sprawled across the bench, his throat slit, soaked in blood. VanCleef jumped up and grabbed reins. Shoving the dead man over the side, he kicked off the brake.

Arinna bolted into the coach, her gown catching and tearing against the door's handle. Unambi tossed Idira inside, she scrambled up beside Arinna, panting, and looked out the window. Papa bellowed in frustration, waving his weapons, giving orders as he stormed towards the coach, his men running ahead, throwing their knives. Their blades slammed into the coach, the points piercing the solid wood. Arinna cried out, begging VanCleef to hurry.

The horses didn't need any encouragement. VanCleef yelled at them anyway. They burst forward, breaking into a gallop. Her heart pounding, Idira watched the distance between them and Papa's men increase. A blur of blue barrelled through the dust towards them. The coach juddered, its back end lowering under the troll's weight as he landed on the back ledge. Unambi looked in through the back window at Idira, his yellow eyes glowing.

"Now Unambi knows why he be here," he roared over the thunder of the horses' hooves. "He been chosen by da gods ta protect ya Light! From now on, where ya go, Unambi goes!"


	8. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER 7**

* * *

VanCleef slowed the horses to a canter as soon as Klaven's tower was out of sight. For a long time Idira remained by the back window, anxious, waiting for Papa's men to appear on the horizon, but no one emerged out of the billowing clouds of dust. The horses cantered on. Midday approached, hot and dry. Lulled by the movement of the coach and the rising heat, Idira gave up and returned to her place beside Arinna, who stared out the window, keeping a vigil of her own.

Soon, the dark smudge of Moonbrook's buildings appeared on the horizon, distorting in the heat. VanCleef called to the horses, the beat of their hooves slowed to a trot, then a walk. The coach lurched to a halt beside a bristly stand of scrub. A cloud of dust rolled past the windows carrying tumbleweed with it. High above a vulture wheeled in giant circles, silent, searching for its next meal.

A creak came from the front of the coach as VanCleef jumped down. He paused beside the coach's door to look in at Idira and Arinna. A fine coating of dust covered his face. He nodded at them and moved to the back. The coach's back end lifted as the troll left the ledge.

"I can't take you any further without endangering you. Can you make your way back home from here?" VanCleef asked Unambi.

"I be stayin' wit da girl," the troll answered, quiet.

Idira crept to the back window and peeked out. VanCleef stood with his hands on his sword grips, facing the troll, who didn't seem able to stand up straight. Bent at the waist, Unambi leant forward, his strange three-digit hands hanging down to his knees. He sank down into a crouch and rested his wrists on the tops of his thighs, his movements fluid, graceful. He looked up at VanCleef, eyeing him, sharp.

"Ya don' be knowin' da magic she be havin', so ya be thinkin' da trolls be knowin'." He jerked his head at the coach. " _She_ be da reason ya be catchin' Unambi."

VanCleef crossed his arms, his expression hard under the layer yellow dust. "And _do_ you know?"

Unambi shook his head. "Dere be no name for dat but I be knowin' dis much, she be carryin' da mojo o' da gods."

"So it's troll magic. Can you get it out?"

The troll scoffed and rubbed one of his fat fingers under his nose. "Dat be no troll magic, mon. Dat be somethin' bigga' den dat. Much bigga'."

"How big?"

Unambi looked uneasy. He shifted his weight, bouncing a little on his toes. "Da first magic. Da magic o' da world."

VanCleef uncrossed his arms, startled. He glanced back at the coach. Idira darted back, hoping he hadn't seen her.

"Da witch docta's be havin' an old story for dat," Unambi continued, keeping his voice low. "Da light she be carryin' . . . dat be the first magic, da one all o' dem otha's be comin' from."

Idira edged closer to the window, to see. VanCleef stared at the troll, disbelieving.

"You are certain?"

Unambi shrugged. "Unambi be knowin' enough, but he jus' be a Gurubashi warrior. If ya want ta be knowin' all, ya be wantin' a witch docta'." He chuckled. "If ya be livin' long enough ta be catchin' one."

"Your word is enough. Do you know how to stop it?"

"Ya don' be stoppin' dat magic, mon. Dat girl be like dat for a reason, she be chosen for somethin' big. All ya can do is protect her until da Light be doing what it came here ta do."

"Will it hurt her?"

The troll didn't answer, he just looked up at VanCleef, enigmatic. He glanced over his shoulder into the distance.

"Dat man in black be wantin' ya job, mon. Unambi be knowin' he been buildin' an army o' his own. Ya keep me safe an' let me watch ova' dat girl an' Unambi be tellin' ya what dat man be plannin'."

VanCleef's hands went back to his sword hilts. He stepped closer to Unambi, flexing his fingers on the hilts, menacing. "How do I know you won't hurt her, or take her back to your people for your own purposes?"

Unambi stood up, his eyes narrowing, angry. "Ya be sayin' such tings because ya don' understan' what she be." He pointed at the coach, but kept his gaze on VanCleef. "Dat girl don' belong ta da trolls, or ta da humans, or da elves. She don' belong ta nobody. She belong ta da Light. Unambi be da best berserker in da tribe and he been wonderin' for weeks why he been captured like dat. Now he be knowin' da reason. Unambi been chosen. He be protectin' her till da day he be goin' ta da spirits. Dere be no greata' honour."

VanCleef inhaled and rubbed his hand over his jaw. The dust smeared, leaving an imprint of his thumb and fingers behind. He rested his hands on his hips and glanced at Moonbrook, then down at the ground, considering.

"You'll have to stay in the cellar, in a cage, until I can confirm your information about Jac's plans."

Unambi's eyes met VanCleef's, determined. "I be whereva' da girl be."

VanCleef said nothing. A muscle in his jaw twitched. Silence fell and stretched.

"He can have one of the empty rooms near me," Idira blurted out through the window.

VanCleef glanced up, taken aback. Unambi nodded at her.

"Let da girl decide. She be da one wit da Light."

VanCleef moved to the door and opened it. He leaned into the coach. "Idira, did you hear what he said?"

"All of it," Arinna answered, pale.

He eyed the priestess. "What do you think? Have you heard of this original magic, this . . . source?"

Arinna nodded, her lips thin.

VanCleef cursed and slammed his hand against the door frame. "Then why didn't you mention it before I lost fourteen men trying to capture a troll?"

Arinna shrank back against the coach's interior. Wisps of her hair hung down around her face, her once neat and tidy chignon messy and dishevelled. Dried spatters of blood peppered one side of her face.

"Because it's not possible," she whispered, her fingers clutching at the material of her cloak. "The power would be too great. It would tear a human apart. Even a Guardian couldn't contain it."

"Yet there she sits, alive and well," VanCleef answered, bitter, his eyes raking over Idira. He cast a look back at Unambi, who had crouched down once more, waiting, patient, his gaze following the slow circle of the vulture sailing high up in the clear blue sky.

"If he is right, and she has a purpose yet to be fulfilled, perhaps the Light is protecting her from itself," Arinna continued, hesitant. "I can think of no other possible explanation."

"Is there not _anyone_ you can ask about this? I would rather not put all my trust in a troll," VanCleef muttered, exasperated.

Arinna stared at her hands, her eyes moving back and forth as she searched her mind. She looked up, abrupt. "Khadgar would know."

VanCleef raised an eyebrow. "The one I was commissioned to build a statue for?"

Arinna nodded, miserable. "He is the only one I know of with ties to a Guardian," she glanced up at VanCleef. "He had access to Medivh's Library at Karazhan. Not even the archives within the deserted Hall of the Guardian can compare to the knowledge buried in Karazhan. If anyone would know, Khadgar would."

VanCleef cursed. "Well, that's no use to me, since he is gone and never likely to return."

Idira turned on her seat and looked at them, both lost in their thoughts, both unhappy. She glanced back at the troll, still waiting, patient.

"Unambi came back and picked me up when I fell down," she said, quiet.

VanCleef glanced at Arinna. "He did?"

"I didn't see him pick her up," she answered, "but he put her in the coach, that much I remember."

They glanced at each other, furtive, shame flickering across their features.

VanCleef cleared his throat. "I didn't know you fell down, Idira."

Idira shrugged. "It's ok, I made it." She lifted up her skirts and showed them her bloodied knees. "Maybe Arinna could make them better. It hurts a little."

Arinna nodded and leaned forward. Light blossomed in her hands. Within a heartbeat it was done. Idira admired her new clean skin. It hadn't hurt a bit, it had just felt soft. "Oh," she breathed, rubbing her hands over her knees,"that was wonderful." She looked up. "Are we going to keep Unambi?"

VanCleef gave her a serious look, filled with reservation. "Do you want him to stay with us?"

"Well, everyone has guards except me. It's not really fair."

VanCleef and Arinna smiled a little, amused by her logic.

"But only if he likes cats," she added. "He has to like cats."

"Unambi loves da kitties," the troll called out as he smacked at something small and dark in the dried grasses a short distance away. He appeared at the window beside Idira, opposite VanCleef, holding up a dead mouse by its tail. "And da kitties be lovin' Unambi because he be bringin' dem nice tings ta eat."

VanCleef scoffed. "Well now I know how you know so much of Jac's business, your range of hearing is extraordinary."

The troll nodded, and threw the dead mouse out onto the plain. The vulture veered towards it. He brushed the dust off his hands and smiled. "Ya be seein'. Unambi be useful, mon. Real useful."

* * *

Myra wasn't happy. She was throwing things again, and yelling she didn't want to live in the same house as a monster. VanCleef's voice came through the floor, low, soothing, his words indecipherable.

"I don't care about what it knows!" she hollered. "Just get it out of here."

Idira went to her bedroom door and opened it. Unambi crouched against the opposite wall. He looked at her, sad as Myra's voice carried up the staircase, harsh and angry, calling Unambi bad names.

"I'm sorry," Idira said. She sat down beside him. "I'll tell her you're a boy troll and not a monster. I can colour out here if you like and keep you company. She can go on for a while when she's like this."

Unambi smiled at her. He reached out and ruffled her hair, messing it up under his big, fleshy hand. "Ya bring ya colours out here den."

She went and gathered up her things, feeling sorry for the strange creature. He reminded her a little of her murloc friend. There was good in him, just like the murloc who saved her from the bad murloc. Even if they looked strange, they were the same on the inside, just like people, with feelings, able to know the difference between right and wrong. She shuffled out, clutching her books and the box of pencils and sank down in the middle of the corridor, cross-legged, facing him.

"I brought an extra book for you if you want to colour too." She held it out to him. He grunted and took the book into his enormous hand. The book looked tiny in it. He turned the pages, careful not to tear them. His yellow eyes roamed over the pictures. He stopped and looked at one page for a long time. He turned it round.

"Who be dis?"

Idira shrugged. "No one. It's just made up."

"I don' tink so. I seen dis one before, a long time ago, in da Deadwind Pass."

"Where's that?"

"Dat be far from here, on da way ta da Swamp o' Sorrows, back when Unambi be huntin' da evil Atal'ai."

Idira had no idea what he was talking about. She excused herself and returned a minute later with her writing tablet and a fresh sheet of paper clipped to it. She held it out to him. "Can you draw a map? I would like to know about the world."

Unambi made a soft vibrating noise in his throat. It sounded like approval. He picked up the black colouring pencil. It was so small in his hand Idira worried he wouldn't be able to use it. He leant over the board, the pencil moving light over the sheet. With quick, deft movements a picture took shape. Idira leaned over, curious.

He pointed to the bottom of the drawing, at a long, narrow peninsula. "Dat be where Unambi be comin' from." Above the peninsula, a province stood surrounded on its southern and eastern boundaries by mountains. He touched the pencil to it. "Duskwood. Full o' nasty tings. Big spida's." His pencil moved again to a thin strip of land to the east of Duskwood surrounded entirely by mountains. "Deadwind Pass. Where I saw da one in da picture."

Idira examined the drawing. "Where are we?"

His pencil moved again as he added another province to the picture to the west of Duskwood, the two separated by a wide river. He pointed to the south-western part of it, nestled up against a low range of hills. "We be here."

"Oh." She looked up at him. "It's very far from your home."

Unambi nodded. "Dat it is," he said quiet.

Idira eyed him, sensing he was feeling bad. "Do you have a Mama and Papa?"

He nodded again, setting the writing table on the floor. "My fatha' be da head o da tribe an' my motha' be in da land o' spirits. I was ta be da next chieftain, but da gods chose Unambi for dis instead."

Idira pressed her lips together, guilt filling her. He was there because VanCleef had made Papa capture Unambi. She didn't want to know, but she asked the question anyway, hesitating at first, then rushing the rest of it through. "Are you . . . a Papa too?"

Unambi closed his eyes and shook his head. "Don ya be worryin'. I don' be leavin' no little ones behind. One or two o' da ladies'll be missin' ol' Unambi but dat be da worst o' it. Dey'll be alright."

He picked up the colouring book and looked at it again. "But dis one. I neva' expected ta be seein' him again. Dis one saved Unambi's life." He handed the book to Idira, she took it and looked at the picture. It was just a man holding a staff, dressed in a tunic and wide collar. "Maybe ya can ask someone for Unambi sometime?" he asked, soft.

Idira nodded. "I will, I promise."

Myra had stopped yelling. Other sounds were coming from VanCleef's room now. Unambi touched Idira's shoulder. "Go on inta ya room now. Dat don' be for little ears."

He helped her collect her things. Idira went in and closed her door. She wasn't sleepy so she coloured in the picture of the man who saved Unambi's life. She took her time, colouring it in as best as she could. She sat back, deciding what colour to make his hair. Silver or black? She chose silver. Somehow it just felt right.

* * *

It took less time than Idira expected for Unambi's presence to become not only accepted but welcomed by VanCleef and his men. While Idira had her lessons, Unambi would join the men in the inner courtyard and teach them the fighting techniques of trolls. Not all of the moves could be used by humans, who lacked the strength and dexterity of a troll, but a few could be modified to deadly effect. Soon even the scariest of VanCleef's men nodded with respect to the troll whenever they passed him. Idira felt a surge of pride. Unambi was the best warrior in the whole house. She never felt afraid of VanCleef's men again.

VanCleef ordered the room across from Idira's to be made into an abode for Unambi. Idira soon found out a troll didn't use the same furniture people did. Instead of sleeping on a mattress in a frame, a troll slept in a sling hung from iron loops bolted to the ceiling's beams. Unambi made a drawing for the carpenters to craft him a low table with a metal brazier set in the middle, a hole cut underneath to allow the brazier's ashes to fall into a little metal tray hanging underneath. A set of four low stools completed his requirements. He said he missed the jungle so an array of leafy potted plants were brought in. They clustered around the edges of the room, filling the space with the rich scent of earth.

Armour had to be specially made to fit a troll's shoulders. It took several attempts to get it right since it had to be crafted from wood and not metal. When it was done, Unambi painted it with his tribal colours of red and blue and decorated it with the red tail feathers of the enormous Rocs that filled the skies of Westfall. Around his waist he wore a belt and leather kilt that hung to one side so his legs would be free. A long panel at the front hung down, covering his modesty. On his chest he painted tribal designs, beautiful intricate whorls that made him look even more fierce. The first time Idira saw him in all his regalia she felt a surge of pride. None of VanCleef's men could compare. She had the best guard of all.

Eventually VanCleef allowed Unambi to carry weapons. It was Borda—the head blacksmith who had moved Idira, Myra and Papa from the farm to Moonbrook—who crafted a vicious pair of serrated daggers for Unambi, the weapons almost as big as swords. Unambi liked them very much. He licked the blades, tasting them and said they told him they were hungry for blood.

For the sake of the citizens of Moonbrook, Unambi never left the house. The day they escaped the tower, VanCleef had snuck him into Moonbrook by putting him in the coach and drawing the blinds. He drove the horses into the stable yard and cleared the way first before bringing him up to the third floor. At first only Lanira and one other maid were allowed upstairs. Both of them fainted the first time they saw Unambi, even though Idira promised them he wouldn't hurt them. As time went by and Unambi became a familiar sight, some of the servants grew to like his gentle, kind way with Idira, seeing him as Idira did. Others did not. They viewed him with open hostility and suspicion. VanCleef dismissed those ones.

Of the women, Arinna accepted Unambi first, frequently coming to talk with him in the evenings, perched upon one of his strange little stools, taking notes. Idira would sit with them, listening, fascinated as he explained about his tribe's belief systems and how they used magic. Everything they believed was different to what Bishop Mattias taught and much more complicated.

Lanira came around soon after, encouraged by Arinna's trust in the troll, although she remained distant and reserved, and perhaps a little afraid, though she desperately tried to hide it.

Although VanCleef had explained all to Nin, when she first saw Unambi, her hand flew to her mouth and she just stared at him, astonished. She tried to teach him manners, and how to hold a teacup, perhaps thinking him a savage that could be made acceptable through social graces. Unambi did his best to try to please her, but his hands weren't made to hold teacups or eat tiny sweet cakes. He broke the fragile porcelain teacups and ate the cakes in one bite.

Nin would shake her head, her lips pressed together in a tight, disapproving line. Idira suspected Nin thought Unambi was testing her, but Idira knew he was really trying. Not one to give up, Nin had a large wooden teacup carved for Unambi, and ordered larger sizes of cake to be made for him. This time, it worked, although he looked completely ridiculous holding a huge wooden teacup between his fat finger and thumb. He liked the cakes though.

Myra refused to acknowledge Unambi. Whenever Idira would go to her room and visit her sister as she dressed for dinner, Idira would tell her about the heroic things he had done like saving a mama tiger caught in a fur hunter's trap. She would take great care to explain how he had tended the big cat's injuries and fed her babies until she was strong enough to carry on alone. But no matter what Idira said about him, Myra would act as though she couldn't hear her, focussing her attention on getting ready for the evening, discussing details about her hairstyle or jewellery with her maid. She would never come upstairs to listen to the bedtime story anymore either. It made Idira sad but VanCleef said she just needed to give Myra time, that she would come around.

Several more months passed. By this time, Unambi had been accepted by everyone except Myra, even the horses liked him. VanCleef said he had had enough and brought Myra upstairs to face Unambi. Myra stood in her glittering finery, glaring at the poor troll, filled with hate and resentment. She refused to speak to him, even though he used all his best manners taught to him by Nin and was very nice to her, making tea and offering her some. She slapped the cup away, splattering hot tea all over him.

That night Myra started fighting with VanCleef again, screaming that Benny would never have made her live with a monster. VanCleef yelled back she was lucky to have him, especially after what her father was putting him through. She said she wished Papa had killed the monster, so she wouldn't have to live with it. VanCleef bellowed back Unambi had saved Idira's life and helped thwart Papa's planned attack against Moonbrook, sparing hundreds of people's lives.

Furious, Myra shrieked that she never asked for her life, outlining to VanCleef in no uncertain terms how much she hated him. Glass shattered, filling the house with the sound of sharp edges and destruction. Idira guessed her sister had broken the beautiful gilt mirror above the fireplace. VanCleef bellowed she was a spoiled brat, and that he'd had enough of her nonsense. He jerked the door open and hollered until she came to her senses he wouldn't have anything more to do with her.

The door slammed and another door opened and slammed shut. And just like that, VanCleef moved out of his bedroom and Myra was alone again. Idira didn't go down even though she could hear Myra crying really hard. Idira was mad for what her sister had said about wishing Papa had killed Unambi. Sometimes Myra could be really horrible. She deserved to be alone. Her hands over her ears, Idira crossed the hall into Unambi's room. As he tended the scalds from the tea on his arms and chest she read him a story. Afterwards, he gave her a hug and said she was the best thing that ever happened to him.

* * *

A few weeks later, Idira woke in the dead of the night realising she had forgotten her promise to find out who the man in the colouring book was. She got up, lit a candle and opened the book so she wouldn't forget in the morning. Something about the way his grey eyes caught the light of the candle made him look more alive. She stared at it, recognising him, but without knowing when or where. She searched her mind. Nothing. She had seen him before, although not in a drawing, as a real person. Her breath caught. The dream she had had of the floating city. He was the man on the balcony. She left the book open on her desk. Tomorrow she would ask Nin if she knew who he was. She hoped so, because now she really wanted to know who he was, too.

Nin didn't know. But VanCleef did. After her lessons, Idira found him in his study working on a design for a big ship.

He glanced at Idira's picture. "Of course I know him," he said. "I had to construct a statue to commemorate him. His name is Khadgar. He saved Azeroth." He handed the book back and looked at her over his glasses. "They really should put names to these pictures."

Her heart thumping, Idira took the book and excused herself. She had dreamed of the hero Khadgar! Maybe the floating city was on the other planet and one day she would be able to get there, too. If the violet light was telling the truth and had shown her the future, one day she would get to meet him. The thought thrilled her. She took the stairs to her floor two at a time.

Back in Unambi's room, she held up the picture and told him Khadgar's name. She wondered if Unambi knew about Khadgar, and what he had done, but Unambi said he didn't. He made Idira some tea and said he was glad to finally know the name of the man who had kept him alive, so when he died he could protect Khadgar from the spirit world. Idira thought that sounded very nice. She asked Unambi if he could protect Khadgar if he lived on another planet. Unambi thought about it for a long time and decided he could because the spirit world didn't have boundaries like planets do. He patted her head and said she asked good questions, things that made him think. He liked that. They drank tea together, companionable, content.

A quiet knock came to the door. Idira opened it. Myra stood outside, alone, wearing a plain dress, her hands clenched tight together, pressed against her waist.

"May I come in?" she asked, timid. Idira looked her sister over, uncertain. She didn't want Myra to hurt Unambi again. Dark circles shadowed Myra's eyes. She had lost weight. Idira hadn't gone to her sister since the big fight more than three weeks ago. Her sister had stayed in her room, crying and alone, with only her maids to attend her.

Unambi came to his feet and moved to the door. He made a little sound in his throat. Idira knew that sound. He felt sorry for Myra. He pushed the door open wider.

"Ya can. Ya want ta sit?" he asked as he gestured to one of the empty stools. He moved back to his own stool and sank down onto it, graceful.

Myra nodded, shy, and sat, her hands tucked between her legs.

Unambi started to brew a fresh pot of tea over the little brazier, his movements rhythmic and relaxing to watch. No one said anything the whole time he made it. He poured out a fresh cup for her. He nodded at her to take it from the table. She did.

She drank and sighed. She peeked up at him. "It's . . . very good."

"For a troll?" Unambi chuckled, the sound warm like sunshine. "Dat Lady Nin be a good teacha'."

He waited, his wrists resting on his thighs. Idira drank her tea and waited too. Myra set her cup aside and looked at Unambi.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I was wrong. I shouldn't have said the things I said."

Unambi didn't say anything for a while. He just looked at Myra, waiting. Idira wondered what he was doing. A tear slipped down Myra's face.

"I'm pregnant," she whispered. "But I don't love him." More tears slid down her face. She wiped them away with the back of her hand.

"Ya be wantin' Unambi ta help ya rid yaself o' it?" Unambi asked, his eyes hard on her.

Myra shook her head. "No," she hiccupped, "it's an innocent babe, that would be a terrible crime." She fell silent, her fingers working along the folds of her dress, smoothing them down. She shuddered and continued in a voice so low, Idira had to strain to hear her. "I want you to help me be able to survive."

Unambi leaned forward. "An' how be Unambi doin' such a ting?"

She looked up, desperation lining her face. "Help me to love him. I heard Arinna tell VanCleef trolls can make powerful potions, things that can change people's feelings."

Unambi grunted. "Ya be wantin' sometin' ta change ya heart?"

"Yes." Another tear slipped free. "I can't go on like this, always at war with myself."

Unambi nodded, slow. "I can help ya wit dat. Come back ta me in a week."

Myra nodded and got up, stumbling a little. He caught her arm, steadying her. She didn't pull away.

"Ya be eatin' up all da food ya can until den," he said. "Ya mus' be strong for da potion ta work."

She murmured she would and went to the door. She stopped and looked back, vulnerable. "Thank you."

Unambi tilted his head to her. "Jus' ya be takin' good care o' yaself and da babe."

She left, her footsteps soft and slow on the stairs. Idira looked at Unambi as she closed the door.

"What are you going to give to Myra?"

The troll scoffed as he picked up Myra's empty cup and set it with the others. "Unambi be no witch docta', but if ya sista' be believin' a cup o' stinkin' herbal tea be makin' her fall in love wit' da boss mon, she will." He pressed one of his thick fingers to his temple. "One ting I be learnin' from da docta's, most o' da time, da best magic be in da head."

* * *

Deep in the night seven months later, in the eye of a hurricane, Vanessa VanCleef arrived. Myra's screams, louder even than the roar of the wind tearing at the shutters and roof tiles, finally ended. Soon her cries were replaced by the high, thin wail of a newborn. Bursting with pride, VanCleef walked around the dining room dressed in his robe, breeches and boots, a box of cigars in his hand, offering the fat rolls of tobacco to any who wished one. Unambi eyed the others smoking, uncertain. He lifted the cigar to his nose and sniffed it. He looked at it for a moment before popping it into his mouth, his eyes lighting up as the flavours came through. When Idira asked what he thought of it, he said it was very good and took another one for later. VanCleef called out for his best cask of port to be opened. Although only just turned seven, VanCleef let Idira take a sip from his glass, but she didn't like it. She made a face. He laughed and kissed the top of her head.

The storm moved on. The cask emptied, the staff and VanCleef's men returned to their quarters, laughing and shouting to each other about the hangovers they would be facing in the morning. VanCleef led Idira into the bedroom where Myra, washed and dressed in a clean nightgown held the newborn baby Vanessa against her breast, nursing her, her face soft with tenderness.

Idira waited until the baby finished. Myra closed her gown and cradled the infant against her. She looked up at VanCleef, her eyes filled with love. He slid onto the bed beside her, smelling of port and cigars and took hold of her chin. He kissed her, deep.

Myra broke off the kiss, smiling, and pulled Idira closer to see the baby. Idira touched Vanessa's little fingers, curled up into small fists. She looked up. "She's so tiny. Like a doll."

Myra adjusted the blanket wrapped around Vanessa and kissed her head. "She is and she has made me so happy."

"You did scream a lot before you got happy, though," Idira reminded her, thinking of her sister's piercing cries that tore through the house for hours. Idira thought it was never going to end.

Myra just smiled and said nothing, her eyes fixed on her baby as she stroked its face. VanCleef got up and took Idira back to the door. "Let your sister rest, tomorrow you can visit again. Unambi can take you up."

Unambi waited on the landing, crouching as usual. He stood and took Idira's hand, leading her up the stairs and down the corridor to her room. Idira opened her bedroom door. Instead of the warmth of her fire, a cold gust of wind blasted out, smelling of the sea. Uncertain, she peeked in. The storm had broken her window, leaving a huge, jagged gash behind. Her curtains hung tattered and ruined, the wind caught the soaking material and smacked it against the wall.

She went in and turned in a slow circle, the carpet squelching under her bare feet. Nothing had survived. Her fairy tale books lay scattered across the floor, sodden and forlorn. Her bunny slumped in a shapeless heap inside the fireplace, stained black with wet ashes. A little cry came out from under the wardrobe. Idira got down onto her knees. Blackie's big eyes looked back at her. Her heart clenched. Poor Blackie, stuck in here all this time while she sang and danced downstairs. She must have been so afraid, all alone and trapped in the storm.

Unambi came in and coaxed Blackie out with his troll language. She came to him and let him take her, soaking and trembling into his big arms. He carried her into his room and settled her by the warm brazier. He closed the door and returned to Idira's room, his eyes moving over the devastation.

"Ya be sleepin' in Unambi's room dis night," he said, sympathy colouring his words. He touched her shoulder. "Ya catch da chill if ya be stayin'."

She wasn't ready to go. Her heart in her throat she pushed further into her room, searching for her colouring book. She had to find it, the picture of Khadgar. Cold wind gusted in, full of damp. Idira shivered, but kept looking. She couldn't leave it behind, it might blow out the window and she would never find it again. She found it plastered against the wall between her desk and the bookshelves, dripping wet. She peeled it away and tried to open it, but all the pages stuck together.

Unambi reached out and took the colouring book from her.

"If ya let dat be dryin' first ya can save it. Ya jus' have ta wait. Come wit' Unambi, and watch ya don' be steppin' on dat broken glass dere."

She followed him into his room, longing to go back and salvage her books. He closed the door and went away. Consumed by loss, Idira waited by the brazier, numb, watching Blackie bath herself dry. Unambi came back after a little while with some bread soaked in milk for Blackie, and extra blankets for Idira. He tucked her into the hammock, his face sad. The door closed behind him once more. Idira lay there, filled with grief, unable to sleep. All her nice things had been destroyed. Why had it been her room and not another one? Why not one of the empty ones where it wouldn't matter?

Quiet sounds drifted through the door. She listened, curious. It sounded like Unambi was going in and out of her room. She wondered what he was doing. Out in the hallway, she heard the soft sound of a book's pages being shook out. She sat up, the hammock rocking under her. A few minutes later, she heard it again. Blackie jumped up onto the hammock and settled down beside Idira.

Idira petted Blackie, her chest tight as she listened to him work, no longer wondering, but certain. Unambi, the greatest warrior troll of the Gurubashi tribe, was saving her books.

* * *

The next day Idira woke to shouts coming from the square. A explosive crack rent the air, so loud it made her ears ring. A heartbeat later a deep crump rammed into the stone facade of the house, making the whole room shudder. Pieces of plaster showered down from the ceiling, covering Idira's face and hair. Unambi burst through the door, and scooped her up in one arm and caught Blackie in his other. He galloped down the corridor to the back of the house, Blackie wailing and clawing him as more thuds hit the house, making the chandeliers in the hallway tinkle. Plaster dust rained down, choking Idira. Her eyes watering, she coughed, fighting to breathe in the thick air.

Unambi pushed open the door to one of the empty bedrooms overlooking the stable yard and slammed it shut behind him. Blackie clawed her way free and tore around the room, desperate for a place to hide. She scrambled into the fireplace and flattened herself behind the grate, her eyes wide. Another boom shook the house. Idira screamed, clinging to Unambi.

"What's happening?" she cried, barely able to hear herself through the ringing of her ears.

"Jac be attackin' da boss," Unambi bellowed back over the thud of another assault. "But dis time he be bringin' da big guns." He set Idira down and pulled his daggers free. "Don' ya be worryin' ya be safe wit' ol' Unambi."

Another loud explosion went off, followed by a tremendous crack and the sound of masonry collapsing, tumbling down into the inner courtyard. Idira tugged on Unambi's arm. "What about Myra and the baby! You have to help them!"

Unambi shook his head, his expression hard. "Unambi don' be leavin' ya."

"But they could die! Please! Go and help them," Idira cried, tears spilling from her eyes. She put all her weight against his wrist, trying to drag him to the door. "Please, " she sobbed, desperate.

Unambi jerked his arm free and turned his back to her. "Da boss be lookin' out for dem, ya can be sure o' dat. I be stayin'. Now don' be askin' Unambi no more, he be gettin' ready ta fight."

Idira retreated, shaking, crying for her sister and the helpless little baby. How could they have survived all those explosions? She was sure they were dead, strewn like dolls across VanCleef's beautiful bed, lifeless and coated in plaster dust. She sobbed so hard she began to dry heave. Why would Papa do such a thing to the house where his daughters lived? Didn't he care he could kill them?

The booms stopped, the sudden wall of silence deafening. Distant sounds of fighting rose up from the front of the house, spreading to the inner courtyard. The pounding of booted feet against cobblestones came from the stable yard. Bellows of warning sounded from the kitchens. Idira stumbled over to the window, unsteady, tripping on the hem of her dress. She fell to her knees and crawled the rest of the way to the window, quaking so hard her teeth clamped down on the inside of her mouth.

She looked down, tasting blood, the gash in her mouth aching. The yard seethed with men fighting, their swords and daggers slicing through the air, cutting and piercing each other, blood spraying against the stable walls. She couldn't tell which men were Papa's and which were VanCleef's, they all looked the same. A man strode through them, stabbing and gouging his way through, dressed all in black. Idira drew a shuddering breath as he dispatched another man. Papa.

A door banged open in the hallway, faint against the noise of battle. Another followed soon after, then another. Shouts drifted down the hall, reporting the location of a stockpile. More doors banged open. Idira shrank back against the window, crying so hard snot bubbled out of her nose. They were coming. Unambi waited, his whole body tensed, ready to attack. He flexed his fingers around the hilts of his daggers. Voices came from just outside the door. Someone kicked it, hard. The door flew open, banging back against the wall.

Three thugs stood outside, their weapons drawn. They gaped at the troll, astonished. Unambi's daggers flew free, burying themselves into the chests of two of the men. He leapt, a blur of blue and red, and grabbed the last man by the throat. He shook him like a doll. The thug's swords clattered to the floor. Unambi squeezed his enormous fingers together, slow, his eyes cold, yellow slits. The thug scrabbled at the troll's hand, his eyes bulging. Unambi tightened his grip. A sharp snap. The man's head toppled over, like a dead bird. Unambi tossed the body away. It hit the opposite wall, its legs and arms tangling in a heap. Pressing his foot against the dead men's chests, he jerked his daggers free. He turned to Idira and lifted a finger to his lips, letting Idira know he needed her to be quiet. Idira gulped in a deep breath of air and held her breath. She shoved the tears and dust from her eyes, trying not to look at the blood pooling around the two dead men.

They waited a long time but no more men came up. The sounds of fighting in the stable yard lessened too. Idira peered through the window. The yard lay strewn with the dead and dying. Those still standing bolted into the house where the clash of swords and the bellow of orders continued to ring out.

Unambi came back in, picked up Idira and carried her over the dead men. He kicked the dead bodies aside and closed the door so Blackie, still cowering in the fireplace, wouldn't get out. His finger to his lips, he crept ahead, his daggers drawn. Idira followed close behind, her heart in her throat, listening to the sounds of the melee dwindle. They passed her door. Unambi looked in. No one remained. He moved to the top of the stairwell, cautious. His eyes moved back and forth, searching. Satisfied, he gestured for Idira to follow. She scuttled over to him, her heart pounding. More dead and dying lay strewn on the stairs and littered the entrance hall.

They crept down the stairs to the landing on the second floor. VanCleef's bedroom door hung open at a wild angle, clinging to the doorframe by its top hinge. A ragged, gaping hole opened onto the square where a window and part of the wall used to be. Idira struggled to free herself. Unambi let her go, following close behind. She ran to the bed, panting with fear and pulled at the dusty covers, dotted with chunks of masonry. Empty. She went to the closet and pushed the doors open. Another ragged gash exposed the room to the square. All the mirrors had shattered and dust hung thick in the air. They weren't there. They had gotten away in time.

She looked at Unambi. He held out his hand to her, and nodded. "Dey be safe. Don' be worryin' no more."

Shouts rose up from the entrance hall. Unambi scooped up Idira and carried her the landing. A dozen men ran out from the inner courtyard, followed by others throwing daggers and five-bladed stars. Four men fell, screaming in agony. VanCleef appeared, his blood-spattered chest heaving, wearing nothing more than his breeches and boots. His swords dripped, slick with blood. He gestured at his men to follow the ones who had fled.

"Kill them all but one. We'll keep that one for questioning."

His men sprinted out. Silence fell. His face hard, VanCleef strode away, out the front door into the square.

"What about Myra and the baby? Why did Papa try to kill them?" Idira wailed, looking back at the gaping hole in VanCleef's once beautiful room. She slammed her hands against the banister railing. "Why is Papa so bad?!" she screamed, her gaze raking over the dead, bleeding out over the chequered floor of the hall, where only hours ago she had danced with VanCleef, celebrating the baby's birth.

Unambi's arm came around her. He tried to hush her. She pushed him away. Too much had happened. Idira crouched down, huddling into herself. Blood stained the hem of her nightdress. She shuddered. Why couldn't everyone just get along? Why couldn't they drink tea, buy hats in Dalaran and read nice stories? Stories. Her books. Quick as a silverfish she slipped out of reach of Unambi's grasp. She bolted up the stairs, scrambling over the still warm bodies of the fallen. She hadn't thought about her books on the way to the landing, she had been too frightened. She raced down the hall, panting with hope. _Let them be ok, just let them still be ok._

She stopped and fell to her knees, her chest so tight she could barely breathe. Her books, so carefully salvaged by Unambi, lay scattered against the sides of the corridor, destroyed by the careless, booted feet of Papa's men. She spotted her precious colouring book, the one with Khadgar's picture. She crawled over to it and slid it out from under a pile of mangled books. Shredded clean in half, it lay open at the page of Azeroth's hero. A bloody boot print stained Khadgar's face. She stifled a sob and let it go.

Nothing had been left for her. Nothing.


	9. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER 8**

* * *

"Oh you poor lamb!" Lanira exclaimed. Her hands fluttered to her chest as she turned around, surveying the damage in Idira's room. A faint tinkling broke the quiet. Lanira glanced at Unambi, who crouched by the broken glass from the window. He picked up a piece and set it into a bucket, careful of the other pieces protruding out of it, jagged and sharp. He met Lanira's look, expressionless, before returning to his work.

"Don't you worry," Lanira said, nodding, brusque, making up her mind. "The Master will make sure you won't do without. Toys and books can be replaced. What's important is you are safe." Lanira smiled at Idira, seeking to encourage her, though her smile didn't quite reach her eyes. She surveyed the wreckage scattered across the room, a shred of doubt flitting across her face before she could hide it.

Idira said nothing. She understood. The house was badly damaged, and now VanCleef was not only in a fight with Stormwind but with Papa, too. There wasn't going to be any time for books and toys. Not anymore.

Lanira sighed, muttering to Unambi she had heard most of the staff had fled after the attack, so it would only be the two of them. Unambi grunted and nodded, shifting his position a little to reach out for a long, thin shard of glass.

"I'll start with the bedding," Lanira remarked to no one in particular as she glanced out the shattered window at the sky. "There's still a good breeze up, and it's looking to be a warm day, too. Best to get these things dried out before they start to stink of damp, at least until a washerwoman can be found." She unbuttoned the cuffs of her sleeves and rolled them up to her elbows, her movements quick and efficient. She leaned over and began to strip the bed, grunting with the effort.

"Ah! It's soaked right the way through!" she huffed, annoyed. She gathered up the cover, holding it dripping at arm's length so it wouldn't wet her dress and moved to the door, skirting the glass Unambi had not yet collected. She called to him over her shoulder. "When you are done with the glass, I'll need you to carry the mattress down to the laundry yard." She didn't wait for him to answer. She hurried down the stairs, her feet swift, filled with purpose and industriousness. Idira wondered if Lanira somehow enjoyed the sudden changes in the house, the lack of staff, of having to be self-sufficient, and everyone being the same. Even VanCleef was working to clear away the dead, she'd told them when she arrived, flustered and a little excitable.

When Idira asked, Lanira told her Myra and the baby were safe, hidden in a secret chamber in the cellar, filled with provisions for just such an emergency, and would be staying there for at least the day. Idira had tried to think where it could be. She thought she had explored every part of the house, but it seemed it still held secrets, even from her. She asked if she could go and see them, but Unambi shook his head. _Ya be lettin' dem clean up da dead first,_ he'd said.

Idira didn't argue. She didn't really want to see any more blood, anyway. Myra and the baby were safe. One less thing to think about.

"I'm going to go and get Blackie," she said. Unambi nodded and carried on working. He hadn't said much after he'd found Idira weeping in the hallway, her ruined books scattered every which way. Idira knew enough to know he was mad. He always went quiet like that when he was angry. But just like her, there was nothing he could do about it. Papa and VanCleef had all the power, and Idira, Unambi, Lanira, Nin, Arinna, Myra and baby Vanessa were just leaves drifting along in their current.

She hurried down the hall, disturbing the plaster dust settled on the carpet, making it rise up in little puffs. She turned the corner and stopped. She had forgotten about the dead men outside the room. She dithered, thinking about going back to get Unambi. What if they weren't really dead and one of them jumped up and grabbed her? She eyed their chests, watching to see if they moved, even a little. They lay perfectly still. She decided to count to sixty. She took her time. She heard Blackie meowing and lost count halfway though and had to start again. This time she made it to sixty. They hadn't moved.

She took a deep breath and scurried to the door. She opened it and slipped inside, shutting it behind her. Blackie had moved to the window's ledge. She stood up and lifted her tail in greeting, the tip curling into the shape of a little hook.

"Are you hungry?" Idira whispered as she stepped towards the cat. She held out her hand, unsure whether Blackie would come to her or not after everything that had happened. Blackie moved forward and rubbed her head against Idira's hand, grateful for her company. A sound rose up from the stable yard. Idira looked down.

The yard had been cleared of its dead, although dark stains still covered the cobblestones, black and ugly. A burly man, his hands bound behind his back walked across the yard, stumbling a little. Two of VanCleef's men held onto him, one on each side of him, rough, jerking him forward. He looked up at the house. Idira stared, astonished.

"Benny!" she cried out, knocking on the window trying to get his attention. His attention snapped over to her, and his eyes met hers. He looked beat up, really bad. He tried to smile, but it came out more like a wince. The men escorting him glanced up at Idira. They both shook their heads at her, warning her to stay away before they pulled Benny into the kitchen.

Idira didn't waste any time. She gathered Blackie up into her arms and pulled the door open. The men. She had forgotten about them. Again. She was pretty sure they looked the same as they did before. She didn't wait. She bolted down the hall, running so fast, Blackie bounced in her arms. She ran into Unambi's room and put the cat down beside the brazier.

"Unambi!" she called as she ran back out, closing the door again. "Blackie needs food. I'm going to go and get some for her." Without waiting for his permission she scarpered down the stairs, hoping with all her heart there wouldn't be any more dead bodies along the way.

She made it down the stairs and through the entrance hall without seeing any dead, but there was a lot of blood splattered over the walls, rugs and furnishings. Smears trailed across the floor where the dead and dying had been dragged away.

Almost all of the steps and flagstones of the inner courtyard were covered in blood, some of it, caught in the heat of the sun, congealed in thick viscous puddles. Even with the stiff breeze coming through the gaping holes at the front of the house, the house stank of slaughter, reminding Idira of the smell of the abattoir that sometimes blew on a tricky easterly wind, carrying with it the scent of fear and death.

No one cleaned, and so far, she hadn't seen a single servant. She wondered if they would come back. It was strange to see the house no longer orderly and beautiful. It felt like a bad dream, one she would wake up from. She stopped. Maybe she _was_ dreaming. It could still be the night of the storm, and Myra could still be in labour. If she was dreaming, then she could warn VanCleef of what was coming and then the house wouldn't be ruined. She pinched herself as hard as she could. Nothing happened, apart from a sharp pain and an angry red mark rising up from her forearm. She huffed. So, it was real, after all. Someone took hold of her shoulder. She jumped and bumped into Unambi.

He shook his head at her, his unhappiness plain as he cast a gaze around the bloody arena. "Dis be bad mojo."

Idira could hear voices coming from the kitchen. She touched Unambi's arm.

"There's someone in there I want to see," she said, quiet.

He narrowed his eyes, listening to the indistinct voices talking. He shook his head. "Da boss be in dere I don' tink—"

"We don't have to go in," Idira interrupted. "I just want to see him and hear what they are saying," she looked up at him, willing him to say yes. "Please?" she begged.

Unambi crouched down, listening, his eyes moving back and forth as he followed the conversation. The voices stopped. Footsteps went outside, to the stable yard. Someone was yelling, protesting. Unambi closed his eyes. "No."

Idira looked at him, surprised. "Why?"

"Da boss jus' killed a man." He dragged a finger across his throat. "Like dat."

Idira stared at him, disbelieving. " He killed Benny?" she whispered, her eyes filling with tears.

Footsteps approached. Unambi yanked her behind a huge potted plant. She peeked out. VanCleef walked into the courtyard. He had finally put on some armour, the black one with the sleeveless tunic. His swords hung from his hips, sheathed in their black scabbards. The men Idira had seen in the stable yard followed after him, Benny between them, stumbling to stay on his feet, his arms still bound tight behind him. Closer now, she could see his face looked very swollen and bloody. She bit back a cry of relief. She knew VanCleef wouldn't kill Benny. VanCleef turned and went down the corridor to his study. She waited for him to close the door, he didn't. Voices drifted into the courtyard.

She glanced at Unambi. "What are they saying?"

"Is dat da one ya wanted ta be seein'?" he asked, jerking his head towards VanCleef's study. Idira nodded, wishing he would tell her what they were talking about. He grunted and tilted his head, his eyes moving once more. He glanced at Idira, a look of approval sliding over his face. His eyes moved some more. He chuckled.

Idira could barely stand it. She tugged on his arm, making it wobble a little against his thigh. "Wha—"

He held up a finger, silencing her. She waited, watching his face for the tiniest change of expression. He smiled, slow, and nodded. "He be a good man, dis one. Dey almost done. Jus' you be waitin' an' I be tellin' ya what ya want ta know."

Idira clung to the edge of the planter, bouncing on her toes and jiggling her legs, trying to hear what was being said for herself, but everything just blended together into a low hum. Frustration and impatience gnawed at her. She huffed. Unambi shot her a sharp look. She held still, though her agitation to know if Benny was going to be alright nearly made her bolt to VanCleef's study. She tightened her grip on the planter, fighting a losing battle with her patience. The voices stopped and the men came out, escorting Benny back into the kitchen. Another door slammed, the one Idira recognised as the one leading to the cellar. VanCleef stayed in his office. She gave Unambi a look, full of meaning. _Now?_

He didn't answer, instead he picked her up and carried her into the kitchen, navigating the courtyard without touching any of the blood. He set her down onto the table, and began rummaging in the cupboards. A shank of roast meat and a string of cheese appeared his hands. He tossed them onto the table before rifling through the cupboards once more. A loaf of bread joined the rest of the items. He put a platter on the table beside Idira and pushed the food over to her.

"Eat dat," he said, "and save some for da kittie."

Her mouth watered at the sight of the meat. She tore into the bread and meat, the bread was stale, but the meat was still tender. She set the bread aside, and worked her fingers against the roast, shredding strips of the greasy flesh away and into her mouth. She hoped Lanira wouldn't catch her eating like this, or there would be trouble.

"Dat man," Unambi rumbled as he sank down into a crouch, "he almos' be killing Jac. Da boss's men be findin' dem fightin' out on da edge o' da town."

Idira stopped chewing. "What happened to Papa?" she asked, her mouth full. A tiny part of her hoped VanCleef's men had finished him off.

Unambi shook his head, resigned. "He be gettin' away."

Idira looked down, a mixture of disappointment and relief flooded through her. A part of her believed Papa could still change, that if he just had the chance he could be a better man. He had just had so much bad done to him, it had made him bad. She noticed her fingers were all greasy, Lanira would have a fit. She looked around for a napkin, but there was nothing, the linen cupboard had been stripped bare. She guessed everything had been taken to be used for bandages. She wiped her hands on her night dress, it was ruined anyway. She pushed her platter away, still laden with plenty of meat for Blackie.

"Why didn't Benny warn us?" she asked, quiet.

Before Unambi could answer, the door to the cellar opened and VanCleef's men appeared, their tunics blood-spattered and dusty. One of them hefted up the bar over the door. They looked tired. They eyed the food on the table, then the troll hunching in the shadows, his eyes yellow slits. Unambi nodded at them. They came over and helped themselves.

One of them, called Kip, glanced down at Idira as he pulled a section of meat from the shank. He was one of the not-so-mean ones, a mercenary soldier, not a criminal like most of the others. "How you doing, kid?" he asked.

Idira shrugged. "Okay." She looked up. "Can I see Benny now?"

The two men shared a look, the other one shrugged. "It's up to Unambi," Kip said. "Boss said to untie him. Benny's down in the wine cellar, until things get settled."

Unambi sniffed. "What be da situation in da town?"

Kip scoffed. "Not good." He glanced at Idira before continuing, "between the storm damage and the wreckage from the cannons, Moonbrook's a mess, it's going to take weeks to clean it up. But apart from the one in the cellar and the wounded we found hiding in the houses, it looks like Jac used all his men at once. We didn't find anyone else, no back-up forces anywhere." He took another bite of meat and continued, his mouth full. "Shame that bastard got away. He's like a cockroach. Hard to kill."

Idira stiffened. Kip cleared his throat. "I'm sorry pet. I know he's your Pa. But he fired cannons at the house where his two daughters live. There's got to be a special place in the Void for someone like him."

Unambi stood up and pulled Idira off the table. "Ya want ta be seein' dis Benny?" he asked, soft.

"Yes, please," Idira whispered, blinking back tears. She followed Unambi to the cellar door, waiting while he lifted the bar away and pulled the door open. She looked back at Kip, watching her, pity in his eyes.

"You're right. Papa's bad," she said, her voice wavering. "But I have to believe one day he'll get better, otherwise what does that make me?"

Kip's expression crumpled. "No, sweetheart. No. Don't think—"

She ran down the stairs ahead of Unambi. She didn't want to hear it. It was true, if Papa was bad, and sometimes Myra was bad, maybe she was bad, too.

* * *

Benny looked terrible. His face had been battered almost to the point of being unrecognisable. He sat with his back against one of the huge casks of wine, his knees drawn up, his arms resting on top of them. All his knuckles were split apart, a few still oozed blood. He turned his head as they approached. The flesh around his eyes had swollen so much he could only look out of slits. Still, they widened a little when he saw Unambi.

"Idira," he said, his voice hoarse.

She wanted to run to him and hug him, but he looked like he was in so much pain she didn't want to hurt him anymore.

She turned to Unambi. "Please, tell Kip to find Arinna." Unambi nodded and went back upstairs. She hoped Kip would do it.

"What happened?" she asked, stepping nearer to him. In the meagre light of the hanging lamps, the shadows of his bruises deepened. He licked his swollen lips, blistered, split open and caked with dried blood.

"Water," he croaked. "Please."

Idira ran back upstairs. Both the men were gone, and so was Unambi. She wondered where the troll had gone. She glanced at the table. Very little remained of the food. Her platter was gone, too. Of course. He had taken the meat up to Blackie before someone else ate it. He really did love cats.

She fetched a jug and pumped water into it. Grabbing a cup, she bolted back down the stairs. Benny hadn't moved. She poured him a cup of water and held it up to his lips. He raised one of his swollen and bloody hands to the cup, steadying it, and drank. He gulped down its contents, slurping, noisy, frantic with thirst. She poured him another cup. He drank all of that too. He settled back with a heavy sigh.

She sat down in front of him. His armour and body were filthy, his flesh covered in cuts and bruises. He looked even worse than the time VanCleef had beaten him up. Benny closed his eyes and leaned the back of his head against the cask. Within a handful of heartbeats his body sagged. He slid down onto the floor, unconsciousness.

Unambi returned and sank into a crouch, eyeing Benny.

"Why didn't Benny warn us?" Idira asked again.

Unambi shook his head. "Let da man tell ya hisself. He be earnin' da right."

Footsteps approached, hesitant. It couldn't be Arinna already. A quiet gasp filled the air.

Myra stepped out from the shadows into the little pool of light under the solitary hanging lamp. Her hair hung loose, tumbling down around her nightgown. She looked so pale and fragile, she seemed almost ephemeral. She crept across the wine cellar towards Benny, her eyes raking over his body, taking in his injuries. She sank to her knees, tears glistening in her eyes.

"You're still alive," she breathed. "My love. You came for me."

"No he didn't. He tried to kill Papa. That's why he's here," Idira corrected, searching her sister for signs of injury, thinking of VanCleef's shattered bedroom. "Did you get hurt? What about Vanessa?"

"We're fine," Myra answered, not taking her eyes from Benny. "There's a passage beside the fireplace that leads to the cellar, we made it out just in time." She looked like she was drinking in the sight of him, it reminded Idira of the way Benny had looked at the jug of water.

Footsteps pattered across the floor above. Someone came down the stairs, panting.

"Idira?" a voice called out, frantic with worry.

"Arinna?" Idira called back, astonished. How could she have arrived so fast?

The priestess came down the corridor into the wine cellar. She skidded to a halt when she came upon the little party. Ignoring the others, she went straight to Idira and clutched her against her chest.

"Oh poppet! I am so glad you are alright. I came as soon as I could."

"What do you mean?" Idira asked as Arinna let her go, looking Idira over, examining her for injuries. "I thought Kip went to get you?"

"Kip?" Arinna looked bewildered. "No, I left Stormwind Cathedral last night as soon as the storm passed. I have been so worried about you. I came straight here to find the house in near ruins and drenched in blood." She shot a dirty look at Unambi, her expression filled with accusation, as though the whole thing were somehow his fault.

Idira pointed at Benny. "Please can you heal him, he's hurt really bad. He's my friend."

Arinna continued to glare at Unambi. He looked back at her, impassive. A shudder rippled through Arinna, her outrage palpable. For a heartbeat, Idira wondered if Arinna was going to hit him. Idira took hold of the priestess's arm and shook it, trying to pull her attention from Unambi to Benny.

"Can you heal him," Idira repeated, urgent.

Arinna glanced at Benny and nodded. "I can," she said as her gaze swivelled back to Unambi, fierce. "But then I want answers. Just wait until the Lady Nin finds out. VanCleef is going to be held accountable for what's happened here. A child in a charnel house! It's unthinkable!"

Unambi shook his head and looked away. Idira felt sorry for him. It wasn't fair. It wasn't his fault. He just happened to be the first one Arinna could find to blame for her shock. Arinna knelt beside Benny, rigid as a board. She took several deep breaths, trying to calm herself. She bowed her head and closed her eyes.

It took her a little while, but finally, Light, warm and clean enveloped her hands. She lifted them to Benny's face, drawing out the dark tendrils of pain and injury, cleansing them in her Light. No one said anything. Idira hardly dared to breathe. Little by little, Benny's cuts and bruises faded, the swelling around his eyes eased and the familiar outlines of his brow and jaw returned.

She moved to work on his arms and hands. The gashes on his knuckles shrank and new skin knitted over the gaping holes, fresh and clean. Arinna fell back onto her haunches, though the Light still glowed in her hands.

"Someone needs to undress him, he has more injuries under his armour," she murmured.

Myra came forward, her fingers working quick and deft on the buckles and straps of his leather tunic. She pulled it off and tossed it aside, it hit the flagstones with a heavy slap.

"Help me lay him down," she said to Idira. "Hold onto his ankles, and pull him out straight when I say."

Idira did as she was told, trying not to think what might happen if VanCleef were to come down and find Myra undressing Benny in the wine cellar. Her fingers trembling, Myra pulled at the ties of Benny's breeches, her breathing quick and nervous. Maybe she was afraid of VanCleef finding them together, too. She freed the laces and yanked his leather breeches down to the top of his boots. He was completely naked underneath, something between his legs sprung up proud and erect, like a fat, pink tube. A pungent smell of stinky cheese filled Idira's nostrils. Unambi's hand came over Idira's eyes.

"It happens sometimes, an effect of the healing. It means nothing," Arinna said, brusque. "Just put his tunic over it." Idira heard the rasp of Benny's heavy leather tunic being dragged across the floor. Idira pulled at Unambi's hand, impatient. After a few heartbeats, he let go. Benny lay naked to his knees, flat on his back, his filthy tunic spread out over his hips. Nasty bruises covered his ribs and thighs and several gouges in his torso seeped blood. Idira could make out the outline of a club in the bruises. Idira shook her head. Poor Benny. He had been beaten really bad.

Arinna carried on with her work although it took much longer to heal his torso than his face. She held her hand over his flank, murmuring his kidney had been ruptured and the toxins in his body had already begun to poison him. Without her aid, she said he would have died within a day. Myra watched in silence, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. She glanced at Idira and offered her a wavering smile before her gaze returned to Benny, her hand holding his, just like VanCleef had held hers when Arinna healed Myra.

Steps came down the stairs, Idira recognised the sound of the footfalls. Idira shot a look at Myra. _VanCleef,_ she mouthed. Myra blanched. She let go of Benny's hand and scuttled backwards. With one last, longing look at his prone body she hurried away into the shadows.

VanCleef's footfalls neared. Idira looked up, biting her lip, what if he didn't want Benny to be healed? VanCleef came in. Exhaustion etched his features. His eyes moved over the scene, slow, assessing, suspicious. Idira was glad Myra was gone. He glanced at Unambi, his look filled with accusation. Unambi shook his head and jerked his chin at Idira. VanCleef nodded, resigned.

"Will he live?" he asked Arinna, even his words sounded tired.

She nodded as she finished, the Light fading from her hands. She looked up at him, pale and drained. "He will now."

VanCleef didn't say anything. His eyes moved to the passageway leading to wherever Myra had come from. He followed it without saying another word. Idira waited for the fighting to begin again, but there was nothing, only silence greeted them, ominous and cold.

* * *

For the next few days, Idira spent the daylight hours with Benny while Unambi worked with Lanira to restore Idira's room. Arinna bought her a new colouring book and a new box of pencils from a shop in Moonbrook, although the pictures weren't as fancy as the books from Stormwind. There weren't any pictures of Khadgar, only animals. Still, she was glad to be able to colour again.

Kip brought down a spare mattress and blankets from the men's quarters for Benny and a stool for Idira. No one seemed to care what she did while the house was being put back into order, not even Lanira, who had become obsessed with the project of restoring Idira's bedroom back to its former state.

From dawn until dusk, the hammering of scaffolding going up rang out, relentless. A team of men, masons all of them, arrived from the north, where they had been collecting tolls from Stormwind travellers for the Brotherhood. As soon as the hammering stopped, the tink of stonecutter's tools rang out from both the square and the stable yard. One by one, the servants returned, driven by the necessity of their wages. VanCleef docked the days they missed, but forgave them, understanding they were frightened. He promised them nothing like that would ever happen again. Slowly, under the efforts of a small but growing army, the house began to take shape again, the memory of the morning of their attack fading with each new dawn.

Three days after being healed, Benny woke up and asked for something to eat, saying he was famished. Idira went upstairs and asked the cook what she could give him. A little while later she came back down, carrying a platter laden with fresh roasted Roc meat, a small loaf of beer malted bread and a bowl of creamy potato soup.

As he ate, ravenous, she told him about his ruptured kidney and Arinna's healing saving him just in time. He mopped up the dregs of his soup with the bread, finishing the last bite with a satisfied belch. He patted Idira's hand, affectionate.

"Ye've allus been such a good girl," he said. "Thank ye for lookin' out for me."

He leaned his back against one of the wine casks and looked around the cellar. He sniffed. "An' Myra, she's safe?" he asked, trying to act casual. Idira could see through him though, just like she could see through Myra.

"She is. She has a baby girl, born on the night of the storm. Her name is Vanessa," Idira answered, watching him.

"Oh?" he said. He brushed a few crumbs off his blanket, trying to look nonchalant but Idira could tell he was gutted. "Is she happy?" he asked without looking up.

"She was until you turned up again."

He didn't say anything. Idira thought he looked a little pleased, but she wasn't sure. She decided to change the subject, she had waited long enough for her answer.

"Why didn't you warn us Papa was going to attack?" she asked, her eyes hard on him. "Didn't you care we might have been killed?"

Benny flinched, as though she had physically struck him.

"I tried so hard ta talk him out o' it," he answered eventually, his eyes unfocusing as he relived the memory. "I did everything I could ta stop him. When I wouldna' agree to go along wit' him, he set his men on me an' left me trussed up at Klaven's Tower ta die. I managed ta get free and ran the whole way ta Moonbrook, terrified I was too late. All I could think of was the two of ye, gone forever . . ." Tears glinted in his eyes. He rubbed them away with the back of his hand. He shuddered. "I'm so glad ye're safe," he whispered.

Idira stared at him, incredulous. The club marks she had seen on his torso, Papa's men had done that to him. Klaven's Tower was far, and Benny had run all the way to Moonbrook, with a ruptured kidney, to try to save them. And then after all that, he had confronted Papa outside the town, trying to kill him with his bare hands. Her throat tightened, thick with emotion. Tears gathered in her eyes. She threw herself into his arms.

"Oh Benny," she cried out, "you are the best man in the world. How I wish everything had turned out different. But it doesn't matter. Myra still loves you. So much."

He sobbed so hard, he shuddered from the force of it. His arms came around her, clutching her tight against him as she wept. He whispered nonsense words to soothe her, even as he continued to sob, soft, his tears falling into her hair, grieving for the woman who had been stolen from him and still loved him, even after all this time.

* * *

After Papa's attack, VanCleef offered five hundred gold pieces for Jac's head, and one hundred for information which would lead to his capture. With a bounty like that on offer—more than two years' wages for most people—plenty came forward with stories of things they had heard, but all of them came to nothing. After eight months, VanCleef grew tired of wasting his men on what he called 'wild goose chases'. He took down the bounty and sent Kip out along with Benny and several rogues to hunt Papa down, but they never found him.

After more than a year of searching, Kip came back carrying nothing more than rumours that Papa had reappeared for a time in Redridge, then in Duskwood, and even for a time in a remote corner of Elwynn Forest. The wildest rumor had him keeping company with a band of pirates far to the south, at the very bottom of Stranglethorn Vale, at Booty Bay.

VanCleef listened to Kip's report, his lips thin. He nodded and said if Jac was hiding amongst pirates, then VanCleef would turn the pirates against him. A few weeks later, Kip and Benny set sail from the south coast of Westfall, the ship's hold laden with antique furniture, fine woven rugs, and crates of rare porcelain and gold candelabra taken from Jac's house on the square. They came back four months later. The pirates were more than happy to work with VanCleef, but Jac wasn't with them, and never had been. They promised if he turned up, they would catch him and turn him over, for a price, of course.

Kip and Benny didn't come back alone, however. When it became known VanCleef was looking for a ship to modify into a juggernaut, a small green creature by the name of Captain Greenskin offered the services of his ship and crew, but at an enormous price. Kip said no, knowing VanCleef could never afford such an exorbitant demand, but he couldn't get rid of the goblin once he learned the ship would be used to sack Stormwind, where everyone who was anyone knew the banks ran with rivers of gold.

The goblin pirate's determination to be a part of VanCleef's Brotherhood troubled Kip, so he decided to set sail in the night, planning to slip out of Booty Bay and away from the odious creature, but the canny goblin was ready to follow. Guided by the light from Westfall's lighthouse, The Night's Cutlass steered thought the narrow straight between Westfall's deadly shoals, arriving just as the horizon glowed with the pink light of dawn. As the dock workers gaped, horrified, the pirate ship eased into the dockyard, its black flags snapping in the stiff ocean breeze. It put in just outside the Deadmines' massive water gates, and made herself comfortable.

At first VanCleef was furious. He had no wish to include pirates in his Brotherhood. He complained about it at every meal, blaming Jac for this unfortunate turn of events, bitterness tainting his every word.

The goblin and his crew remained on their ship, refusing to depart from the docks. Nothing could be done. They were pirates, after all. VanCleef ignored them for as long as he could, actively seeking other options for ships, but after five months of chasing false leads, the last possibility fell through when a message from Theramore arrived, informing him there would be no business done between them. He had only one other choice left to him, hire shipwrights and build his own ship, which he had neither the time nor the means to do. He raged and stormed around the house in a foul mood for a week, cursing the day he was born, asking no one in particular why everything always had to be so hard for him.

The next day, as sour as a man could be, VanCleef went to the docks and looked at The Night's Cutlass. When he came back, his mood had lifted. As Captain Greenskin had put it, now that he was already invested in the Brotherhood what with the costs of sailing up to Westfall and waiting at the dock for nearly half a year, he offered VanCleef a deal he couldn't refuse. For five hundred pieces of gold up front and half the takings from Stormwind's attack, the boat and crew were VanCleef's to use as he pleased. VanCleef consoled himself, saying he had made a good bargain, reasoning that Captain Greenskin's connections ran deep and he would be able to recruit more members to the Brotherhood, as long as they were guaranteed their fair share of the takings from Stormwind.

Over the next few months, a variety of strange creatures arrived on various ships. One by one they joined the Captain. Reports from the docks of the new arrivals were disturbing, ogres and goblins and even a hobgoblin. Idira had no idea what these creatures looked like. She asked Arinna if she had any pictures in her books. The priestess promised she would check, but she never brought up the subject again. Idira sensed Arinna didn't want to talk about them, so she didn't ask anymore. The docks were far away, anyway. It wasn't like she would ever have to see any of them.

VanCleef said nothing publicly against Greenskin's cohorts, but privately he admitted he had lost far too many of his men in Jac's attack, and since then recruiting men for the Brotherhood had been laborious and slow. He didn't like to admit it, but he needed all the help he could get. Despite almost three years having passed since the morning of Papa's attack, the Brotherhood's numbers had shrunk from controlling Redridge, Duskwood and Westfall to only Westfall, with just a handful of men in Elwynn Forest and Redridge working as contacts for the Brotherhood, nothing more.

On the day of Idira's eleventh birthday, after a year of meticulous preparations and shipments of black market supplies being sourced and delivered from all over Azeroth, VanCleef ordered the massive water gates to the mines to be opened. He went down to supervise The Night's Cutlass's tricky navigation and positioning within the vast cavern of the Deadmines, the ship carrying VanCleef's precious cargo of supplies for the weapons he intended to build onto it. He said he expected the move to take all day, but promised he would be back in time for her birthday dinner. He wasn't. They waited as long as they could, but when the dinner began to get cold, they carried on without him. Although Idira had been a little disappointed, it had still been fun with Nin, Bishop Mattias, Arinna, Lanira, Myra and little Vanessa, two months shy of four years, running around on her little legs, laughing and play fighting with Unambi.

Afterwards, Idira stayed awake as long as she could, laying on Myra's bed talking about nothing in particular, fighting to keep her eyes open. The next morning she woke up where she had fallen asleep. She sat up, astonished. She had expected VanCleef to come home and wake her, before sending her up to her own room. It was the first time VanCleef had not come home at night in all the time Idira had known him.

He didn't come back that day, or even the next. When Myra sent Kip to the docks to check on him, Kip came back and said VanCleef was fine, just very preoccupied. When he finally did return, covered in soot and grease, he only stayed long enough to gather up the rest of his notes and designs for his weapons, and to order a trunk packed with clothes and necessities to be sent down to the docks. He pressed a gold coin into Idira's hand, telling her to buy herself something nice saying he was sorry he had missed her birthday, kissed Vanessa goodbye, and smiled at Myra, saying finally things were starting to come together for him and soon he would be able to make things right for the men who still supported him. He was in such a hurry to return, he didn't even bother to take a bath before striding back out the door and onto a fresh horse.

The summer passed, hot and languid. VanCleef came home on the first Sunday of each month, though he didn't go to the Cathedral to listen to the service. In the evenings he would to meet with Kip, his newly promoted second-in-command to look over the accounting of the takings and deal with the reports.

At the end of the autumn, a new wave of rumours rose up, spreading like wild fire in the late autumn heat. Jac had returned with a new group of villains. His men had begun preying on the good people of Moonbrook, catching them on the roads, taking everything they owned, even the clothes off their backs. Darker stories circulated, of violations against the women, some of them even abducted, taken to Jac's camps to work, and worse.

VanCleef refused to stop the work on his ship, saying he was too close to finishing. He gave Kip full authority to do whatever was necessary to find and kill Jac and his men, but as VanCleef drained all the Brotherhood's finances on additional supplies, and with VanCleef's men busy hunting Jac, money started to run out. VanCleef's men threatened to leave. Something had to be done.

Captain Greenskin knew someone who could help. He suggested contacting him. A few weeks later, a goblin dealer arrived in a hired coach, wearing a fancy black suit and top hat, a gold chain and watch hanging from the pocket of his white waistcoat. He touched everything with his strange green hands, his yellow eyes narrowing with greed whenever he saw something he particularly liked. He wrote a number down and handed it to Kip, who blanched when he read it. The goblin tapped his foot, impatient, reminding Kip that time was money. He even called him friend, though it sounded a little sarcastic.

All the art, rugs, drapes, porcelain, and gold and silver pieces were sold, even VanCleef's silver paperweight in his study. Myra refused to let Kip sell her jewelry. She screamed at him, cursing him for bringing such a hideous avaricious creature into her house, contaminating everything he touched with his filthy hands. Once the rugs and drapes were gone, the house echoed, bare of its clothing. The candles had to be placed in cheap iron holders, excavated from cobwebby crates in the cellar. But without the warm glow of the gold and silver on the sideboards and tables, the house felt colder, lonelier, sad.

Idira hadn't had any dreams in a long time, neither had her Light activated since Unambi had come to stay. She wondered if he somehow protected her from herself with his troll abilities. Either way, she had been grateful for the long reprieve. But now, as she wandered along the bare corridors of the house, stripped of their fine details, she recalled one dream where she had floated around the house and everything was gone, the windows empty gaping holes, and what furniture was left, had lain strewn across the floor, broken and gathering dust. She felt a tremor of dread, perhaps this was the beginning of the end for them, perhaps VanCleef would not succeed after all, and Papa would win, driving Westfall into poverty, terror and despair. She clenched her hands into fists, willing the thought away, afraid that even by thinking it, it might come true.

Unambi was out helping in the stable yard with the horses since Kip couldn't afford to pay for stable hands anymore. She didn't want to bother Unambi when he was mucking out the stables, he liked working with the horses, anyway. She decided to go and see Myra but she wasn't there. Idira opened the doors to the closet, it too stood empty. Maybe her sister was with Vanessa. At almost four and a half, Vanessa spent her afternoons having lessons with Nin, learning her letters. Idira sat down on the divan in the closet, at least this room was still the same. Although almost everything else was gone, Myra had managed to at least protect her personal possessions from that awful little goblin.

Sudden movement at the edge of her vision made her jump, she had thought she was alone. She peered out into the bedroom, wary. A part of the wall beside the fireplace shifted a little, caught in a draught. Her trepidation melted away. The secret passage! Myra had never told her where it was, and since her sister was usually in her room, or close by in Vanessa's room, Idira could never search for the passageway herself without fear of being caught. She crept over to it and edged it open, cautious. A narrow wooden spiral staircase descended into the shadows. Idira could hear voices, soft and indistinct. Knowing Nin would disapprove of her sneaking around, she pushed aside her qualms and let her curiosity overcome her. She had waited so long. Besides she might never get another chance again.

She leaned forward. It smelled fusty, like old crates and the shut up rooms on her floor. Pulling the panel closed behind her, she edged her foot down onto the first step, bracing her hands against the walls on either side of her. The space was so narrow, she imagined VanCleef would have to go down the steps sideways. In total darkness, she felt her way down, claustrophobia clawing at her. She thought about turning back when she heard a familiar voice. Benny! She hadn't seen him in months. She hurried on. A sliver of light glowed in the darkness below, coalescing into the outline of a doorway as she drew closer. It must be the secret room where Myra had hidden on the day the attack! Idira had never found that either. Almost bursting with excitement she came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, her hand coming up to press against the door.

A quiet sigh, followed by a deep groan made her hesitate. She knew those sounds well enough from VanCleef and Myra's night-time activities. Idira would be twelve soon, and her own changing body had started to remind her she was no longer a little girl but growing into womanhood. Lanira had given Idira a little book about that, detailing what to expect from her body as it developed into maturity. None of those things had started to happen yet, for which Idira was glad, it sounded terrible and frightening. But one thing was certain, her interests were definitely changing. Sometimes she would sit in her bedroom window and watch the apprentices working in the smithy across the square, the lean muscles of their arms and chests rippling with exertion and gleaming with sweat. She might not be sure what was happening to her, but she did know she liked looking at them.

Benny moaned again. The distinct sound of kissing came through the narrow wooden door. She just wanted to see Benny, that's all. Maybe they hadn't gone too far, and she could make some noise before coming in. She would just take a peek first, to see. She edged the door open the tiniest crack.

Benny had Myra in his arms, her face caught between his hands, his mouth on hers, kissing her with such passion, Idira could only stare, fascinated. Benny didn't look like a silly boy anymore, he looked like a real man. A big, strong, grown-up man.

He pulled back, his eyes hot on Myra's. "Ye're mine. Never forget it."

Myra nodded and pulled at the laces of his breeches, panting, frantic. His hands moved to her gown, jerking her skirts up to her waist. He picked her up and settled her against his hips with a grunt, his hands gripping her by her buttocks. Her legs slid round his waist, tightening as he rocked her against him. They began to moan, both of them breathing hard. Myra's fingers dug into Benny's shoulders, her hair falling loose from its pins as she rode him, arching her back.

Idira pulled away, ashamed, and crept back up the stairs. She went to her room and sat down in her window seat, her mind filled with the images of what she had just seen. Benny and Myra. She wondered how long they had been together. Myra had been in an inexplicably good mood for a long time now, at least since the middle of the summer. Idira had wondered why, now she knew. Even though it was disloyal to VanCleef, Idira was glad. Myra loved Benny and he loved her. They should be together, and anyway VanCleef was never home anymore, he spent all his time with his precious boat and his strange new allies. Was Myra just supposed to sit in her room and be lonely?

Idira looked down into the square. The men in the smithy were taking a break. They smoked roll-ups and talked in little groups, looking serious and worried, rubbing their big, meaty hands over their shaved heads. The apprentices continued to work, sweeping and topping up the water bath with fresh pails of water. She watched them for awhile, her thoughts drifting back to how Benny had looked at Myra. One day she hoped someone would look at her like that. One of the apprentices glanced up at her window. Their eyes met. He smiled, shy.

She bolted out of the window seat and perched on the edge of her bed, her cheeks burning with humiliation. She glared at the book Lanira had given her with loathing. According to page twenty-seven, embarrassment around boys was normal and was only the beginning of 'the exciting and delightful changes her body was about to experience'. She shook her head. She had read up to page forty-five and had to stop, the 'delightful changes' were too upsetting. Things were only going to get a lot worse from here on out. A sudden urge to cry overcame her. Page thirty-three talked about that. She decided to distract herself thinking about someone who had more problems than she. She thought about the hero Khadgar trapped on another planet. It was all so unjust, after everything he had done. Why was everything so unfair? She thought of him all alone and lonely, missing his friends and his home. The next thing she knew she was crying, though she really had no idea why.

* * *

Winter came and went, and Jac's stranglehold on Westfall increased. Kip contacted the goblin again, and sold all the furniture that wasn't being used, which was most of it. Apart from Unambi, and Kip's occasional presence, there was no one left in the house to protect them. Though of what interest were two children and Myra? There was nothing to take, unless thieves were inclined to start stripping the wooden panels from the walls. Even Myra's jewellery was gone now, taken in the third run by that nasty goblin, along with almost all of her gowns, apart from her plainest ones.

The smithies took it upon themselves to organise huge caravans to help Moonbrook's citizens leave Westfall. Armed with borrowed guns supplied by Captain Greenskin, they escorted the people of Moonbrook across Westfall and over the river bridge into the safety of Elwynn Forest, leaving them outside the safety of Westbrook Garrison to carry on the rest of the way to Stormwind on their own.

The wealthier people shut up their businesses and boarded up the windows of their big houses, driving away in their carriages to the dockyard, followed by wagonloads of crates filled with their most valuable possessions. Idira heard most of them had headed for Menethil, a huge walled city far to the north in a province called The Wetlands. A fresh start, that's what they wanted, they said, away from VanCleef who was rumoured to be going mad, and his warring Brotherhood. They had had enough.

In the middle of spring, Kip let the last of the house staff go, though there weren't many left to send away. Most of them had already left Westfall, fleeing with their families, along with the caravans. Lanira left as well, taking the last caravan, saying she had stayed as long as she could for Idira's sake but her own family's safety was also at stake. Idira cried harder than she expected she would when Lanira finally pulled away and walked out the front door, escorted by Kip. Idira ran out into the empty square and called after Lanira, frantic, begging her not to leave, calling her Mama. Lanira crumpled, staggering in Kip's grip. Her shoulders shook as she wept, but didn't turn back. Supported by Kip, she kept walking, and never looked back.

Cook was the only one who stayed, saying she had no family to go to and nowhere else to be, declaring she had been born in this house and would die in this house. Idira didn't know what Kip thought about Benny, but there was no doubt he turned a blind eye to the stolen time Benny spent with Myra. Late one night, Idira had woken up hungry and gone down to the kitchen in search of food. When she had walked past VanCleef's door, she heard Myra cry out Benny's name as they made love on VanCleef's bed. It was as if VanCleef didn't even exist anymore. It felt as though everything had come full circle, right back to where they started from. It was just Myra, Benny and Idira again, poor and hungry, and Papa was still bad, just like before. The only thing that was different was they lived in a bigger house, and now there was Vanessa and Unambi and Kip.

Idira woke on her twelfth birthday to a house shrouded in total silence knowing there would be no celebration and no presents. They barely had enough food to manage, just whatever Kip could scrounge from the dockyard intended for the workers on the ship. It had been six months since VanCleef had left the Deadmines. Idira wondered anew if the rumours were true and he had begun to go mad, maybe they would never see him again. She was glad they had Benny, he would know what to do, maybe they could finally go and live in Elwynn Forest.

She sank down into her window seat and looked over the deserted square. The smithy lay empty and forlorn, a large tumbleweed rolled back and forth inside it, caught between the forge and anvil. The Weary Traveller, boarded up for more than two months bore a thick chain and padlock around the handles of its front doors. The rest of the shops on the square stood silent and dark, their dust coated windows broken. Whatever little the owners had left behind long gone, stolen in the frenzy of self-preservation that overcame the town as its exodus progressed.

Her gaze drifted to the once pretty fountain and its garden, long since fallen into disrepair. During a sudden, brief cold snap over the winter, the pipes burst and the poor fish froze to death. Borda cut off the water supply, but no one bothered to remove the fish, leaving them to rot in the rancid, filthy water, the stink of their decay rising up to Idira's room for days. Without its gardeners, the garden, lawn and rose bushes died of thirst, leaving only the skeletal spines of their once beautiful branches behind, twisted and gnarled.

The other houses on the square lay ransacked, their doors kicked in and windows shattered. For a while mayhem had controlled the streets, as the poorest, lowest classes—unable to pay their way on the caravans—vented their anger and resentment against the privileged in an orgy of destruction. Eventually, even they left. Hunger driving them out onto the wastelands of Westfall, in search of something, anything to eat. Without ever having to return, Papa had managed to lay an entire town to waste.

She glanced at the letter in her hand, brought to her by Kip. He had found it in the tunic of one of Papa's dead men, after one of his many skirmishes against them. A little blood stained one side of it, but the words were still legible. It was a letter from Nin, handwritten in her elegant hand on a fine piece of embossed stationery. Dated three months ago, she apologised for not having been able to say goodbye in person but she had had to leave in great haste with an escort of Stormwind guards sent specifically to collect her. She learned her royal connections to the previous Queen were enough to warrant her protection despite her fidelity to VanCleef.

She wrote detailing how she had barely had enough time to shut up her house in Moonbrook and leave. Once in Stormwind, she had been taken aside and told she wouldn't be allowed to return until VanCleef was contained. She later saw a generous reward had been posted around the city, inviting adventurers to enter the Deadmines and defeat VanCleef before he could attack Stormwind. She quickly moved on and wrote Arinna and Bishop Mattias also sent their love, having accepted her offer for them to join her in her flight. She reassured Idira if anything ever happened and she needed a home to go to, she could always find one with Nin in Stormwind. She had enclosed a promissory note for ten gold pieces, but Idira had no idea how she could ever access her sudden wealth when the bank in Moonbrook had been closed since the New Year, the vaults long emptied by VanCleef's demands for support. She hid the bank note in her book about growing into womanhood. Somehow she suspected not even that greedy goblin would bother to look in there.

* * *

Two months later, in the middle of a broiling hot late spring afternoon, Idira lounged on the steps of the inner courtyard watching Unambi play Vanessa's favourite game with her. It was a made-up game she called Dagger Girl. It wasn't really a game more just pretend, but Vanessa loved to play act she was grown-up like her father, carrying two blades. She used little wooden daggers, attacking Unambi with a ferocity that was fascinating to watch. Only just turned five, she had clearly inherited her father's catlike agility. Unambi showed her moves, which she learned and executed with alacrity. Blackie came in and sat down beside Idira, swishing her tail and washing her face. Idira petted her, thinking at least Blackie would always have plenty to eat, once the people and all their cats left, rats had arrived, carried to shore by all the ships from other lands carrying VanCleef's supplies.

The front door slammed. Idira looked up, startled. Unambi stood up and pushed Vanessa behind him. Idira hurried over to join them.

"Where is everyone?" VanCleef hollered, his voice echoing through the deserted corridors and rooms of the house.

"We be 'ere," Unambi called back. They waited. Eight months. Idira had not seen VanCleef in eight months, and now, all of a sudden here he was as though he had just left to run an errand.

He walked into the courtyard. Idira caught her breath. He looked very pale and tired. Grey hair had begun to streak his temples and deep lines furrowed his brow, despite the bright sunlight, dark shadows stubbornly clung to his eyes.

"Daddy!" Vanessa screeched, running to him, her arms open wide. VanCleef's exhausted face split into a huge smile. He knelt down and swept her up into his arms, hugging her close to him.

"Oh my little love, oh my darling, how I have missed you!" he cried out, tears filling his eyes.

Idira stayed with Unambi, watching them. VanCleef looked leaner. So he had gone without food, too. At least he had not neglected them while he continued to look after himself, as she had occasionally suspected in her darker moments. He looked up at them, his gaze searching the edges of the empty courtyard.

"Where's Myra?"

A rush of terror swept over Idira as she remembered she had met Benny in the kitchen an hour ago. He had said he couldn't stay long, since he was on his way north to meet Kip.

"She's having a nap," Idira said, ashamed how easily the lie slipped off her tongue. She didn't wait for VanCleef to answer, she ran up the stairs and pounded on the bedroom door, calling out Myra's name. She could hear the frantic sound of straps being buckled and lacings being tied. Idira heaved a sigh of relief. They must have heard VanCleef come in.

"I'll be right down," Myra called out, breathless.

Idira returned to the courtyard. VanCleef looked up, expectant, his obvious disappointment plain once he realised Myra wasn't there. Idira swallowed the surge of guilt that washed over he. She smiled and reassured him Myra was on her way. He let go of Vanessa and gave Idira a warm hug.

"Look at you," he said, looking her over, fond, "growing up so fast. And so pretty, just like your sister." Idira smiled, flattered by the compliment. All the mirrors had been taken months ago, so she could only see her reflection in a pail of water, or at night in the candlelight against a window. She had had no idea if she was pretty or not. Somehow him telling her so, made her feel warm and happy inside.

Myra came in, her cheeks flushed and her hair hanging loose in its chignon. She patted down the stray wisps, nervous.

VanCleef let Idira go and went to Myra. He took her in his arms and kissed her, hard. He let her go and held her at arm's length, drinking in the sight of her.

"You are a sight for sore eyes," he sighed and kissed her again. He let her go. "How I have missed you. All of you. But now you will see, my absence will have been worth it." He tightened his hold on Myra. "Everything is ready for you to join me on the ship. I have designed everything, hot running water, rooms for everyone, a kitchen, a washroom, every possible luxury. We don't have to live apart anymore, we can be together, just like before. A family."

"A family," Myra repeated, sagging in his arms, desolate, "on a pirate ship, in a cave, in the dark."

"But we will be together," VanCleef persisted, desperate. "Don't you want to be together? And in a few months, we will be ready to attack Stormwind. You'll see, it's all going to come out right in the end."

Myra didn't answer. She pulled herself free, stumbling a little, weak from hunger and went back upstairs, crying softly.

Vanessa tugged on VanCleef's breeches. He looked down, and smiled at his daughter, though his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I want to be a family, Daddy. Wherever you go, I want to go." He patted her head, distracted, and looked at Unambi.

"What happened since I've been gone?" he asked, as though he couldn't see how much things had changed. "Myra is so different."

Idira glanced at Unambi, wondering what he was going to say. Maybe VanCleef _was_ a little mad, to ask such a thing.

"Ya been gone too long boss," Unambi answered, giving nothing away. "Dat girl needs time if ya gon' ta be puttin' her on a boat in da dark." He looked down at Idira, pity in his eyes. "We all be needin' time ta be gettin' used ta dat."

Idira felt Unambi's hand take hers, giving her a reassuring squeeze. She clung to him and looked at VanCleef, fearful. She didn't want to live on his boat. Even living here, in a ruined town, with barely any food was better than that. At least they had fresh air, and sky and clouds, and stars, and the sun. She thought of being closed up inside of a mountain, surrounded by walls of rock. She couldn't do it. Tears welled in her eyes. Please, let this be a bad dream. Please let her have fallen asleep while Vanessa played with Unambi.

VanCleef raked his hand through his hair, distracted. "I'm going to win. She'll see," he muttered to himself. "Everything will come out right in the end."

He walked away, heading to his empty study, behaving as if the house hadn't been stripped bare and there was nothing left for him to find but walls and floors. In his wake, oblivious to her fate, Vanessa trotted after him, as trusting as a lamb.


	10. Chapter 9

**CHAPTER 9**

* * *

They had one last night in the house. Idira spent the evening gathering up the few possessions they still had left and bringing them into VanCleef's room for packing into leather satchels. As she set down the last of her books onto the scuffed parquet floor, she noticed Myra hadn't done any packing during the time she had been away.

Her sister wandered around the room, aimless, lifting things up and putting them back down, unable to bring herself to pack anything. Myra hadn't said a word since she had gone back up to her room, but now, as darkness set in and the room darkened with shadows, held back by the faint light of a single candle, she began to plead with VanCleef to allow her to stay until the attack against Stormwind was over.

VanCleef shook his head and said it wasn't safe in Moonbrook anymore, explaining Jac's men now possessed more than half of Westfall. Ten days ago, Kip had told him he no longer had enough men to keep Jac's growing army of criminals and thugs out of Moonbrook. Within a fortnight, he predicted the town would be Jac's. When Myra asked why VanCleef couldn't leave more men at the house, VanCleef crossed his arms and said he needed his men in the mines working on the final stages of ship's outfitting, not fighting a losing battle against Jac. Besides, he said, once he had taught Stormwind his lesson, they really would have no reason to return to Westfall, with a ship like The Night's Cutlass, they could go wherever they pleased, could even cross the Great Sea and visit Kalimdor. Myra turned away, but not before Idira caught the glint of tears in her sister's eyes. She knew what her sister was thinking. If they went across the sea, Myra would never see Benny again.

"I have been working night and day to have everything ready in time," VanCleef said, watching Myra as she went into the closet and brought out her only other dress and lay it on the bed. She stared at it, forlorn. He pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes and rubbed them hard before looking up at her again. He looked like he could fall asleep standing up. He leaned against the fireplace pillar. "I haven't slept for more than three hours in the last two days trying to finish everything for you," his gaze flicked over Vanessa, curled up asleep on the bed, before he continued in a low voice. "I have done all this so you and the girls would not have to suffer, as I have had to do, washing in cold water and sleeping in rough berths. Can you not see I have done all this for you, my love? To protect you, and keep you safe?"

Myra sank down on the bed and let out a low cry, hollow and hopeless. Idira set aside her book, their conversation too distracting for her to be able to focus on making the agonising choices of deciding which books to keep and which to leave behind.

"If you take me in there, I will die," Myra shuddered. She looked up at him, her face filled with anguish. Her eyes moved from his down to one of the daggers hanging from the belt on his hips. "I cannot live in the dark," she whispered. "I can't. I won't. I will kill myself first."

VanCleef pushed away from the fireplace and went to the bed. He stood over Myra, a spark of anger flaring in his worn features. "Do you have any idea what Jac has become?" he asked, harsh, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. "The women his men have captured are slaves, chained to stakes like animals, forced to work in the camp by day, and raped every night. I have no reason to believe your fate would be any better. Jac has proven over and over how little he cares for his own flesh and blood. Do not make me force you in this matter, because if I must, I will."

At his words Myra sagged and folded into herself. She wept anew, defeated, her hands pressed to her face, her thin shoulders shaking, but she didn't argue anymore. VanCleef sat down beside her and took her into his arms, hushing her and rocking her, trying to console her. After a little while, Myra pulled away from him and lay down, putting her back to him, her face streaked with tears. She closed her eyes.

Idira got up and lifted a cover over her sister. In the light of the flickering candle, Myra looked terrible, her face gaunt and exhausted, dark smudges surrounded her eyes. Only a shadow of her beauty still tinged her features. She reminded Idira of how she had looked that one winter on the farm when they were at their hungriest, on the brink of starvation, long before all of this began. It was like they were going back to the beginning again. Everyone hungry, everything hopeless.

VanCleef stood up and watched Myra as she drifted into sleep, his hands on his hips, his expression filled with extreme tenderness. Idira realised VanCleef probably loved Myra as much as Benny did, but in a completely different way, not for the person she was like Benny did, but as an ideal of who he believed she was, that only he could reach.

Idira went back to her little pile of books, all she had managed to keep back from that hideous goblin during his final foray. She had been told she could only bring three books with her, the other eight would have to be left behind, but VanCleef had promised he would hide them in the cellar's secret room, where they would be safe until they could be collected again one day, after he defeated Stormwind. She had nodded, obedient, her eyes catching Unambi's who shook his head and looked away, sharing her misgivings. They both knew they wouldn't be coming back. She sighed and sorted through her books again, deliberating which of her friends she would have to abandon to their awful fate, left in the cellar to rot.

The next day they left, carrying the last of their worldly goods on their backs. Cook stood at the door and waved a tearful goodbye. Despite VanCleef's warnings, she insisted she was too old to be going on such an adventure and besides someone needed to stay and look after the house until VanCleef came back.

Despite knowing it was cruel to put a cat on a boat in a cave, Idira couldn't bring herself to leave Blackie behind for Papa's men to find, so she placed her cat into a basket and closed the lid. Then, just like she had done seven long years ago, she picked up her companion and left her home, following the others across the square as they began the long walk through the deserted town towards the desiccated plain separating the town from the sea, and on to the cliff road that led down to the docks and their new life.

She turned around just before they left the square to look one last time at the big house. She gazed at the window to her room and imagined seeing herself looking out that window, never allowed out to play with the other children, a prisoner in a gilded cage. Over the years, she had had some happy moments, but everything about living with VanCleef had been overshadowed by strife and fear. She realised despite his once great wealth and power she hadn't really been happy there, and a part of her was glad to be leaving, to be moving closer to the day when she would stand on that balcony in the floating city with the hero called Khadgar.

"Bye house," she whispered. Somehow it felt right to say it, within those walls, she had been educated and trained to have manners fit for a palace, things she would never have experienced even in the best of all other outcomes. Perhaps that house was important for her preparation for her future, for that day when she would meet the hero Khadgar. Perhaps everything had a meaning, even though at the time it felt like nothing made any sense at all. She sighed, her heart heavy. Or perhaps there was no meaning to anything, and her dream of a floating city had only been just that, a dream, as fanciful as her fairytales. She had never dreamed of Khadgar again, though every night she wished she would.

She turned to find Unambi waiting for her, his expression filled with sadness. He shifted the heavy bags he carried so he could hold out his hand to her. She took it and together they left, neither of them speaking, even Blackie lay quiet in her basket, subdued by the oppressive silence of a town left with nothing but the memories of the laughter and voices of the townsfolk, long gone, sighing in the wind.

* * *

They arrived at the docks after four hours of walking, it had been a broiling hot afternoon and sweat trickled down Idira's back, coating her torso and making the material of her dress stick to her skin in a most unpleasant way.

She had longed to shed the thing and walk in her underwear and camisole, but she knew she was too old for that now she had started to become a woman. She glanced at Vanessa with envy for the hundredth time, at least she was allowed to run along in her bare feet and underwear, free of the constraints of a laced-up dress. Idira's feet hurt too. She was sure a blister had begun to form on the top her of big toe.

They reached the edge of the cliffs and took the long, zig-zagging road down to the shore. Apart from a solitary rowboat tied to one of the dock's iron cleats, the dockyard lay completely deserted, just like the town. VanCleef led them to the boat and helped Myra into it. She sank, trembling with fatigue down onto the bench, pale as a sheet despite the blazing warmth of the sun.

"There's food on the ship, my love," VanCleef murmured as he hefted the bags he had been carrying for her into the boat. "Just hold on a little longer. I promise you will be well taken care of from now on."

Myra didn't respond, she just sat and stared out at the ocean, her expression blank, seeing nothing. VanCleef lifted Vanessa into the boat. Oblivious to the state of her mother, Vanessa chattered excitedly, peppering her father with questions about what was going to happen next and why couldn't she see the boat yet. He answered her questions as he loaded the rest of the bags, helped by Unambi. _We're going to go through those huge gates there against the cliff walls. You can't see the boat because it's inside the mountain._

"In there!?" Vanessa squealed, laughing. "Nobody puts a boat inside a mountain!"

"Nobody sane," Myra said in a voice colder than ice, the last sparks of her spirit igniting as she turned to look at the oppressive gates, taller even than the big house's four stories and wider than one whole side of Moonbrook's square.

VanCleef said nothing, though his jaw tightened and his back stiffened a little. The air grew thick with unsaid words. Idira sensed there would be a fight tonight, the first of many. Even Vanessa quieted, sensing the tension between her parents.

Idira shifted her weight, trying to ease the pressure on her blistered toe. She longed to take her shoes and stockings off and lower her feet into the cool, salty waters of the sea. It had been so long since she had been by the sea, she wished they could dally just for a while, but she sensed VanCleef was in a hurry. He kept looking over his shoulder as he hauled the bags into the boat, his gaze straying back up to the top of the cliff, as though he feared someone had followed them.

A warm gust of wind blew in over the sea, carrying the metallic, pungent scent of rich seaweed and reminding Idira of the warm, salty smell of the seashell that her murloc friend had once left for her. The breeze washed over them, much richer than any she ever remembered coming from the cold, dark briny sea by the farm, far to the north.

Unambi stood up, pausing in his work. "Dat be da smell o' da warm waters o' home," he said, inhaling, deep. "Ah it be good ta be tastin' dat sweet scent again."

VanCleef threw the last of the bags into the boat and turned to Idira.

"Let's go," he said, sharp, waggling his hand at her, impatient.

She limped over to him and let him hand her into the boat, holding out her hands to take Blackie's basket from Unambi. Blackie peered out between the basket's weave, panting with fear, her eyes wide. Unambi came next and sat beside Idira, murmuring to Blackie about all the nice rats she would find on a pirate ship.

Myra blanched and pressed her hand to her mouth, her fingers shaking. VanCleef ignored her, his gaze once more straying to the top of the cliffs as he cast off. He pushed the boat out and jumped into it, light, the months he'd spent on the water obvious from his agility as he moved over the bags to the bench in the middle. He picked up the paddles and began rowing with strong, swift strokes. As they neared the solid wall of wood, buttressed by metal studs, he pulled up the paddles and reached down into his shirt, lifting a slim metal whistle attached to a leather cord around his neck. He blew on the whistle three times; short, quick bursts. He waited to the count of ten, then did it again.

They drifted for several minutes, the water slapping against the sides of the boat, soft. No one said anything. A deep groan came from within the gate's structure. The doors creaked and split in the middle, opening outwards, sending a wake of water rushing towards them. The sound of a winch being cranked drifted out from within the cavern accompanied by faint shouts, _Heave! Ho! Heave! Ho!_ , each shout matching the crunch of the winch's spikes connecting with the gate's chain. The doors groaned, opening little by little, their massive weight pushing the water out in billowing waves. Their rowboat bobbed up and down, caught in the peaks and troughs of the moving water, at times tilting precariously. Idira felt Unambi's arm come round her shoulder, holding her steady. Several more minutes passed before an opening stood wide enough for their little craft to pass through. VanCleef blew on his whistle again, three long blasts. The men inside stopped shouting, and the winch fell silent. Without saying a word, VanCleef picked up the oars once more and rowed them toward the gate's great, dark maw.

Idira turned to look up at the vanishing sky as the looming gates and the claustrophobic darkness lured their little boat into its jaws. Panic closed in on her. She couldn't do it, for one wild moment, she thought about jumping off the boat and swimming to the shore. She could run away to Stormwind and stay with Nin until this was over. She felt Unambi's hand tighten on her shoulder. He shook his head and mimed for her to take a deep breath. She realised she was panting, just like Blackie. She kept her eyes on Unambi as they went through the gates, taking deep breaths with him, her heart pounding. Blackie began to wail, terrified, scratching at her basket, desperate to escape.

Darkness surrounded them. They slid through the black waters of a vast cavern, into the bowels of a mountain, the cavern's roof lost to the deep shadows. Ahead, within a little pool of light, lit by blazing torches, an enormous ship rode at anchor near a shelf of rock that led into a tunnel, also barred by a gate. Scaffolding and walkways built up against the ship's side connected the boat to the tunnel.

The men were shouting _Heave! Ho!_ again, working the massive winch. The doors began to close. Idira half-turned on her seat, keeping her eyes on the blue strip of sky, on the vanishing light of the day, as it thinned into a beam, then a sliver, then a crack, then disappeared, swallowed up by the darkness. The doors came to with a dull boom that echoed through the cavern. It felt like being buried alive. Silence fell.

Myra screamed, clawing at her clothes, tearing at them, making the boat rock. Vanessa began to cry.

"Daddy!" she called out, terrified, between her mother's shrieks, "I don't like it here. Mommy doesn't like it either. I want to go home. Please take us home."

VanCleef said nothing, neither did he turn to look at them, he just kept rowing slow and steady, determined, his eyes as hard as iron as he brought the boat into the ship's dock. Idira shrank against Unambi, understanding. This was what VanCleef had always truly desired, to possess them and decide their fates, controlling their lives just like the dolls Idira used to play with in her dollhouse. She caught his brief smile as they bumped against the dock, his sigh of relief.

He jumped out of the boat and yanked Myra, wailing and quaking onto the dock. He slapped her hard across the face, twice. When she didn't stop panicking, he shook her so violently Unambi jumped out and took hold of VanCleef, stopping him. VanCleef cursed and let her go, stalking away to the other side of the dock, muttering about them being ingrates.

One of VanCleef's men came forward and offered him a silver flask, VanCleef took it and drank deep, his hands shaking. A little spilled out the corner ofhis mouth. He wiped the back of his hand across it as he stared at Myra, weeping in a crumpled heap on the dock, his eyes cold. He finished the flask and came back, his mood changing, suddenly filled with remorse.

He took Myra into his arms and kissed her, reassuring her how wonderful the ship was inside, if only she would come with him and see. He helped her to her feet, supporting her against him as he made his way up the scaffolding, murmuring over and over that they were safe now and could finally be a family again.

* * *

Even if VanCleef hadn't lied when he'd said he had made a home for them with every comfort, Idira longed to leave—even being back at the farm, cold and half-starved would be better than this. With Vanessa's hand in hers, she followed VanCleef from the little dock at the ship's base up the ramps of scaffolding to the ship's top deck. Beyond the blazing light of the torches, a wall of darkness pressed down on them, threatening to consume them. From out of nowhere Idira recalled a childhood fairytale of a ship swallowed by an enormous whale, the inside of the cavern seemed no different to her than the whale's belly as it had been described in her book. She shuddered.

The hatch in the top deck leading down to their quarters stood within a cabin, VanCleef's office. She clambered down the ladder after Vanessa to discover five rooms: a washroom with a privy closet and a bath, complete with plumbing, two bedrooms, one for VanCleef and Myra and one for Vanessa and Idira, a study for VanCleef and a sitting room which also held a dining table. Their quarters lay tucked at the rear of the ship, its total space adding up to no more than the size of VanCleef's bedroom in the big house. Unambi soon learned he was far too big to fit through the narrow hatch to their quarters and was forced to retreat to the top deck. One of the crewmen was sent to hang a hammock for him, Idira overheard that Unambi had moved it afterwards, into VanCleef's office so it was by the ladder leading to their quarters.

VanCleef walked them from room to room, showing them all the little things he had done to modify the ship for their stay, completely oblivious to their distress as he moved through the rooms, behaving like an excited schoolboy showing off a pet project.

He finished his tour and brought them to the dining table, making everyone sit on the chairs bolted to the floor. Food and wine arrived on a large tray, carried by a middle-aged shaven-headed pirate with a patch over his eye. Idira gaped at the long white scar which stretched from his patch up to his scalp and all the way down to his upper lip. He caught her looking and smiled at her, making the scar move across his face in a disconcerting way. Idira lowered her gaze back down to her plate, her cheeks burning, embarrassed to have been caught staring.

He carried on with his work, setting out bowls of thick potato soup and a platter of fresh baked rolls with a flourish. He then placed a linen napkin over his arm and served the wine with as much care as a refined butler. The meal wasn't fancy but it was hot and there was more than enough for everyone, even Myra ate a little.

VanCleef continued to talk throughout the meal, filling them in on his project and all he had accomplished over the last months. Idira looked at the others, eating in subdued silence, no one looking at him, or answering him, for the time being hunger overcoming even the terror of the oppressive darkness which clawed, incessant, at the windows and doorways.

The meal finished, VanCleef stood up and told them he had work to do and not to wait up for him. He bent to kiss Myra. She flinched and pulled away from him. He drew back, looking genuinely puzzled. He regarded her for a moment then shook his head and went up the ladder. Idira heard him calling to the workers, asking how the positioning for the third cannon had gone in his absence. As his booted footsteps retreated, Idira heard him whistle a jaunty tune. She glanced at Myra, several buttons on her bodice had come free when she had panicked on the boat, leaving the neck hanging open a little more than it should. It would need mending, and soon.

Idira stood up. She had to do something, anything, sitting here would make her lose her mind. She decided to go through their bags, left in a heap in the middle of the sitting room. She called Vanessa over to help her. She would start with Vanessa's things first, and put them out for her in their room.

It took the rest of the evening to unpack their belongings and stow them into the little cubbyholes hidden in their cabins. Vanessa and Idira each had a berth tucked up against a wall with a little cupboard standing between them, which they used to store their meagre amount of clothing and what few possessions they still had. Myra and VanCleef's room had a large double bed in it, a feather mattress tucked inside a wooden frame bolted to the floor. Idira had to admit, VanCleef had tried very hard to make their quarters comfortable. Soft blankets and cushions covered every hard surface, and candles burned everywhere in golden candelabra, once more surrounding them in the warm glow of gold.

In the sitting room, adjacent to the dining table, five diamond pane leaded windows reflected the candlelight back into the room. Idira went and unlocked the latch of the middle one. It lifted up. She looked down. Far below, the waters of the cavern lapped against the ship, murky and dark. Something moved, sinuous and heavy in the water, sliding in the darkness. The hairs lifting on the back of her neck, she closed the window again and locked the latch, her imagination offering unpleasant images of what sort of creatures lurked at the bottom of those bleak waters.

Idira decided to keep Blackie in her room until she got used to the ship's smells and sounds. For the time being at least, the cat seemed quite content to remain on Idira's bed, eating from a dish filled with morsels sent up from the galley. There would be enough time for her to explore and catch rats later.

* * *

For the next two months, Myra did nothing apart from sit on the cushioned settee and stare into thin air. Idira took care of Vanessa, washing her, playing with her and reading to her. One evening after putting her niece to bed, she brought her sister some wine. Myra took it and drank deep. She settled the cup into her lap and gazed at the windows.

"He's going to come for me," she whispered. "He won't leave me here, he can't, not knowing what he knows."

"Shh! Be careful what you say," Idira hissed, looking over her shoulder, in case anyone had overheard. Myra ignored her. Idira waved her hand in front of her sister's face, she didn't respond.

"Myra you have to pull yourself together. Vanessa needs you," Idira reminded her. "I'm not enough. She needs her mother, she's afraid of the dark."

Myra looked up. "Vanessa?" she scoffed. "That is not my child. She belongs to _him_. The only one that needs me is the babe growing inside me." Her hand moved to cradle her abdomen, caressing it.

Idira stared at her sister. "You're pregnant?" she mouthed, terrified to say the word out loud. "Does you-know-who know?"

Myra nodded and met Idira's eyes, her sister's face becoming flushed from the wine. "As soon as he can get enough men together," she whispered, a little too loud for Idira's comfort, "he will come and kill VanCleef, and then we will move to our farm in Elwynn Forest. He promised."

Idira sank back onto her haunches, her sister must be referring to something Benny had said while they were still living in the house. If Benny were to try something so foolish in here, he would never get out alive. She didn't even know how he could get _in_ alive. She nodded at Myra and patted her sister's hand. "I'm sure you will, but until then, promise me you will never speak of this again." An idea struck her, she took a chance. "He told me to tell you that."

Myra's eyes widened, like a child's. "Oh! You've had a message from him?"

Idira blinked, her heart aching. If her sister believed that, she was already far gone. "Yes, just this morning. He said you were to promise me," she repeated, using the kind of voice one uses to speak to the insane.

"I promise, now all I have to do is wait. I am sure he won't be long." She went to the window and unlatched it. She lifted it up, hooked it open and leaned out the window. She turned her head and lifted her face, as though warming it against an imaginary sun. "The breeze is lovely," she murmured.

Idira backed away, horror clutching at her. How long would Myra be able to hide the evidence of her affair with Benny from VanCleef? How long would she remember not to say what she was thinking? VanCleef left them alone almost all the time, but still, she could say something in her sleep, or at dinner, an offhand remark. Eventually, with enough time, she would show. Perhaps they could convince VanCleef the baby was his, she knew VanCleef had taken Myra often enough, she'd heard his moans in the night, even with the pillow over her ears, though she had never heard Myra. Idira pressed her hands to her face, hopelessness overwhelming her. She was only twelve, well, almost twelve-and-a-half, but still, what did she know about things like this? She needed Lanira. Her minder would know what to do, how to manage Myra. Idira glanced at the hatch, it was open. She could hear Unambi singing a song to himself, low, it sounded sad.

Even though she hated being on the top deck of the ship where she couldn't escape the feeling of the mountain's weight crushing down upon her, she clambered up the ladder. She needed to hear Unambi's rich voice telling her everything was going to be all right, even if it was a lie. Please, she prayed as she scrambled up the ladder, anything, just as long as it gave her something to hang on to, to bolster her own fraying grip on whether she was even real anymore, locked in this world of black; just to be reassured that her worst fear wasn't being realised, and she had become trapped in a nightmare from which she would never wake up.

* * *

The dark days and nights passed endlessly, one blending into the other, a relentless world of black enclosing them in its womb. The only way to tell the difference between day and night was by sound. At night, all was quiet aboard the ship. During the day, bellows and shouts ricocheted within the cavern's walls, accompanied by the clang of metal and the thud of sledgehammers as the crew and VanCleef's men worked to finish the last adjustments to the ships weaponry.

Myra remained in the sitting room, sleeping, drinking wine and drifting back and forth from the open window, keeping her vigil. She spoke softly to herself now and again, nonsense words that had no meaning to anyone but her. Idira ate her evening meals with VanCleef in a constant state of dread, encouraging Vanessa to talk so Myra might not speak out and say something which would damn them all.

One evening over dinner, Vanessa was telling her father about a story Idira had read to her about a man who had caught a golden fish and was granted three wishes only to lose everything in the end and have less than what he had started out with when Myra dropped her cutlery onto her plate and screamed, crying out in agony. She slid from her chair onto the floor, doubled over, clutching at her torso.

"The baby!" she panted, scrabbling at the material between her legs, pushing her fists into her crotch as though she could force it stay inside her. "Save my baby!"

A dark stain blossomed out through the material of her gown, spreading fast. Blood. Idira licked her lips, fighting her rising panic. It was all over now. VanCleef would kill them both.

VanCleef bolted over to Myra and collected her up, shouting for the ship's doctor as he carried her into their room. Not knowing what else to do, Idira followed after them, watching as VanCleef pulled her gown up, the blood soaking through her loose undergarments, spilling out onto the blankets. VanCleef held her, and reassured her, saying he didn't know they were going to have another baby and why didn't she tell him, going on about how much he loved her and how everything would be all right. Myra screamed and began to strain, pushing herself up so her back pressed against the wall. She grabbed hold of VanCleef's forearm and bore down, her feet braced against the sides of the bed frame.

"No!" she screamed, even as her body forced her to deliver, giving birth to her unformed child. "NO!" she sobbed as something bloody and shaped like a little bag slid out past her sodden undergarments and onto the bed. She looked at it in horror and wailed, still clinging to VanCleef's arm. "Benny! Our baby!"

VanCleef pulled himself free, shoving her away from him. He stood over her, staring at her, quivering. "You are mistaken," he said, his words hard and jagged. "You meant to say my name. That was our baby."

Myra shook her head, sobbing. "No . . . "

VanCleef hit her then, so hard she tumbled off the bed and slammed against the wall. Idira backed away and ran up the ladder, crying out for Unambi, tripping on the hem of her dress in her hurry to put distance between herself and VanCleef. Unambi came to her from out of the dark, his yellow eyes gleaming in the torchlight.

"Unambi be here," he said, his voice warm and reassuring, calming her. "Hush now, don' ya be frettin', Unambi be here." He pulled her into his arms, and together they listened to Myra's hysterical weeping, and the sound of VanCleef's booted feet pacing the narrow confines of the sitting room. The ship's doctor arrived, after a few minutes he returned holding something small and round in a bloody towel. He went to the side of the ship and threw it overboard, it landed in the water with a quiet splash. Idira waited until he went back down before running to the ship's side. She caught the last of the towel's material slipping under the water's inky surface. The water rippled, a creature, long and sinuous broke the water's surface, sliding down after the fetus. Idira choked, sickened by the thought of a little baby being thrown to the monsters in the dark waters below, its tiny body torn apart by the creature's razor-sharp teeth. Clenching the railing, she closed her eyes and willed herself to wake up, begging, praying, imploring the Light to make her nightmare end.

VanCleef moved out of their quarters that day, taking Vanessa with him, though she cried and said she didn't want to leave and go up into the dark. Idira was sent back down, the hatch closed and locked behind her. Idira could hear Unambi appealing to VanCleef, saying Idira was innocent. But VanCleef said nothing. He just walked away.

For four days Idira waited, terrified, thinking of the day VanCleef had disembowelled the maid all those years ago in the inner courtyard of the house, sick with fear Myra would face the same end. Despite her despair, she took hope at the sight of food being brought to them three times a day. If he intended to kill them, why would he continue to feed them as well as he had always done?

Early on the morning of the fifth day, as Idira sat at the table toying with her breakfast, she heard booted feet approaching the hatch. The bolt slid back. No one was supposed to come again until lunch. She stood up, panting. Here it comes, she thought. Now we die.

Myra crept out from her bedroom, still weak from having lost so much blood. She clung, shaking, to the doorjamb and peered up at the hatch as it opened, her eyes wide and fearful. Losing her baby and their subsequent incarceration had finally pushed through Myra's shattered mind and dragged her back to her senses, filling her with regret and terror for what was to come.

One of VanCleef's men came down the ladder and gestured for them to follow him up. Idira tried to take a measure of him, but his expression remained impassive, giving nothing away. Trembling, she went to Myra and helped her sister up the ladder. They came out onto the top deck, blinking in the light of dozens of burning torches. VanCleef's men stood assembled all around the deck, Idira recognised some of the ship's pirate crew too, further back, their eyes glittering in the torchlight, anticipating the show.

Standing before them, wearing his sleeveless black leather tunic and breeches, his swords hanging from the belt on his hips, VanCleef looked at Myra, his arms crossed over his chest, his biceps bulging. He lowered his arms and walked over to her, making a full circuit around her. He stopped beside her and tilted his head down so his mouth brushed against her ear.

"Did you miss my warm body beside you at night? Is that why you went to him?" he whispered. He reached out and lifted a tress of her hair. "Did you crave my attention while I wasn't there to give it to you, hm?"

Myra said nothing. She stood as still as a statue, staring straight ahead, her eyes shining with unshed tears.

VanCleef stepped back, his chest rising and falling, infuriated by her refusal to accept his explanation for her behaviour.

"Did you?!" he bellowed, his hands moving to the hilts of his swords.

Myra flinched and began to quake.

"Answer me," he breathed.

Myra shook her head, a tear escaped, sliding down her face.

Silence fell, not one of VanCleef's men moved. VanCleef stood, trembling with rage, his eyes boring into her, furious. He nodded, terse.

"Fine. Have it your way." He turned but did not take his eyes from her. "Bring him in," he called out.

A commotion broke out at the furthest edge of the group, near the scaffolding. The crowd parted, making space for two men to come through. Kip appeared first, his hand on the arm of someone behind him, following after him.

"Benny," Myra whispered, sinking to her knees.

Someone touched Idira's shoulder, she jumped and looked behind her. Unambi nodded at her, motioning for her to go to him. Everyone was looking at Benny, some with curiosity, others with veiled admiration, at the man who had made VanCleef, the leader of the Brotherhood into a cuckold. Despite her proximity to Myra, no one was looking at Idira. She shuffled backwards until she was beside Unambi. He reached out and took her hand, his expression so sad, it made her heart ache.

"Don' be lookin'," he warned, low.

But Idira already knew what VanCleef was capable of, knew underneath all his polish and elegant charm a dark and vengeful creature lurked who relished the indiscriminate power of one who could take lives without any consequences to himself. She had allowed herself to be blinded to his true nature, by listening to the words of Nin, as she justified his many crimes in the name of a greater good. No more. She would watch, and she would never forget, would never again allow herself to be seduced by the myth of VanCleef, the unsung hero. He was a bad man, just like Papa, no he was worse than Papa, because at least Papa didn't pretend to be good. And now, Benny was going to die because VanCleef couldn't make Myra love him.

His face utterly impassive, Kip stopped in front of VanCleef and let Benny go. Benny and Myra gazed at each other, their eyes telling everyone the truth, that no one, not even VanCleef could ever come between them.

"I love ye Myra," Benny said, low. "I'll find ye, in the Nether. Whenever ye come ta me, I'll be there, waitin' like I allus have."

A stiletto flashed in VanCleef's hand, he rammed it in between Benny's ribs, puncturing his lung. Benny staggered and fell to his knees. He reached out to Myra, his fingertips caressing her face. VanCleef's sword slashed down, severing Benny's arm at the elbow. Benny fell back onto his haunches with a jagged cry, scrabbling at his bloody stump, his face paling. The stiletto flashed again, into Benny's abdomen, once, twice, three times. A stink rose up as the gases in his body escaped. Kip came forward holding a hangman's noose in his hands, suggesting it was time to end this, but VanCleef shook his head, his eyes glittering in the torchlight, hungry for more.

He circled Benny once, then kicked him in the shoulder, sending him sprawling onto the deck. Benny flailed, blood spraying from the stump of his severed arm, splattering those around him. VanCleef stepped over Benny, straddling him, and pulled a hidden dagger from his tunic. He bent down and cut the laces holding Benny's breeches closed, taking great care not to nick him, his work almost seductive. Myra cried out, horrified, and grabbed hold of VanCleef's leg, begging him to stop. VanCleef kicked her aside, sending her tumbling into the legs of one of his men.

Groaning and sliding in his blood, Benny pulled himself up, struggling to come to his feet. His face twisting with hate, VanCleef rammed his booted foot against the base of Benny's throat. Benny slammed back onto the deck, juddering as he fought to free himself. VanCleef scoffed and reached down into Benny's open trousers, grabbing hold of something Idira couldn't see. He smiled, cold, and with a rough jerk of his dagger he pulled something free. Myra screamed, and Benny bellowed, gagging in agony. VanCleef spun around, holding Benny's bloody genitals in his hand, triumphant. He flung the grisly thing away, it slid across the deck, a tangled mess of hair and flesh. A stunned silence swept over the crowd, several of the men looked away, and more than one turned to retch over the side of the ship.

Benny still breathed, though his breaths came out ragged and broken, his punctured lung making the blood bubble on his tunic. He bled out, blood pumping out in deep, slow gouts from his groin, torso and the stump of his arm. Though he shuddered and gasped, his face rigid with shock and pain, he kept his eyes on Myra. He blinked at her, slow, as his final breaths left him.

Myra crawled over to him and clutched his bloody hand to her mouth, kissing it, weeping, her eyes locked on his, staying with him to the end.

"I love you," she breathed, "I never, ever stopped."

VanCleef roared, furious, and turned, pulling his sword free. He raised it high, preparing to behead Myra. She waited, her eyes locked on Benny's, kneeling in his blood, her face and dress spattered with it, holding his gaze even as the light in his eyes died.

Idira clung to Unambi so hard, her fingers hurt. Fear and shock held her in its thrall, she could only watch horrified and helpless as Benny died and Myra awaited her execution. She began to quake, certain she would be next, and then Unambi. This was how it would end, here in the dark, their bodies fed to the monsters below.

VanCleef continued to hold the sword up for a long time. His arm began to shake. "Look at me!" he cried, his voice raw with jealousy and need. "Just once, look at me."

Myra lifted her eyes from Benny's dead ones and looked at VanCleef, dull. He stared at her, his face contorting as a multitude of emotions rode through him. He lowered the sword and pulled her to her feet, his arm going around her, possessive. He pulled her against him and kissed her, fierce, uncaring that Benny's blood coated her lips.

"No. It's over," he murmured as he dropped his bloodied sword, letting it fall to the deck with a clatter. "He's gone. Forever. You are mine now. I could never kill you. I would kill myself first."

Myra didn't respond, she stood, numb, hanging like a doll in his arms, her eyes vacant, letting him rant and rave, kissing her over and over, his bloody hands in her hair, swearing his love for her was greater than any which had gone before. Her eyes went back to Benny's as VanCleef promised she would soon see what he could see, as he described their idyllic future, how they would be a family and happy once more, just as they once had been.

His men shifted, uncomfortable, drifting away one by one, until only Unambi, Kip and Idira remained.

VanCleef looked up from stroking Myra's hair from her face, at Benny's ruined body. "I am not a bad man," he said, soft. "You must understand, it is other people who force me to do the things that are necessary to keep everything right. You will see. One day, when all this is over, you will love me, so much more than you ever loved him."

* * *

That night Idira couldn't sleep. She lay in her bunk, listening to Vanessa's even breathing, grateful her niece had been kept far below in the galley for the duration of Benny's brutal execution. She tried to think of something to distract her mind from replaying the last moments she had had up on deck, but even thoughts of the hero Khadgar, lately her most favourite diversion, failed to capture her attention.

The memory crept back, vivid. At a terse word from VanCleef, Kip and Unambi picked up Benny's body and threw it overboard. Idira cried as he fell, his eyes still open, looking up at them, filled with pain and grief, holding their gazes until the waters claimed him and he sank into their depths. Myra had just stared in total silence at the spot where Benny's body had slammed against the water, even as the surface parted and several serpents gathered, diving after him, their teeth flashing in the torchlight.

A quiet sound in the sitting room pulled Idira from her thoughts. She sat up and listened, holding her breath. It was the dead of the night, the hatch was closed and locked from the inside. Had someone come in? Impossible, they would have to get past Unambi first. A terrible thought crawled over her. What if Benny had come back to haunt them? Idira thought of the stories Cook had told her about ghosts, of the souls of the dead, those poor unfortunates who had been brutally murdered but remained in the realm of the living, unable to leave the ones they loved.

She swung her legs over the side of the bunk and slipped to the door, pulling it open with the greatest care, so as not to make a sound. She peeked out through the crack, her heart pounding, half expecting to see a ghostly apparition of Benny standing by the dining table.

She caught her breath. Myra, clad only her nightdress, walked slowly across the sitting room, hunched over, carrying something in her arms. Idira edged the door open a little further, frustrated by the deep shadows in the sitting room. Only one candle burned at the back, on a shelf behind the ladder, in case anyone needed to make their way to the washroom in the night, but its light was so dim, Idira couldn't make out what Myra cradled against her chest. Her sister stopped by the windows and knelt down, setting whatever she had in her arms onto the floor. She reached up and opened the window, securing it onto the upper latch.

Idira furrowed her brow, perplexed, why would Myra want to open the window in the dead of the night? She watched as her sister bent down to lift up the thing on the floor and set it on the ledge, before lifting her nightdress up from her ankles to clamber up onto the ledge after it.

Something was tied around Myra's ankle. It looked fat and fuzzy. Idira's eyes widened as horror swept over her. A rope, just like in her vision at her birthday party. The rope snaked up and wrapped around the thing on the ledge. She squinted, desperate to make out its shape. No. Her heart sank. VanCleef's strongbox, carrying all his gold. The heaviest thing Myra could have found that wasn't already bolted down.

Her sister sat on the window ledge, her legs dangling over the side; over the dark depths and the things that stirred within its black waters. Idira pushed the door open and ran after her sister, crying out, begging her to stop, stubbing her toes and bashing her ankles and knees against the corners of the unforgiving furniture bolted to the floor. Her sister looked back, her eyes hollow and empty, and pushed the strong box out the window.

"Benny," she whispered. The box tumbled out into the empty air.

The rope fell away, at the last moment she pushed herself from the ledge and with a flutter of white linen she was gone, a heartbeat later a loud splash pierced the quiet as the strong box hit the water, followed by a louder one as Myra landed after it.

"Myra!" Idira screamed. She stumbled, shrieking and sobbing to the window.

VanCleef burst out of his bedroom, his eyes wild and searching. His gaze raked over the room, taking in the open window and Idira's panic. He ran to the window and looked down, horror and disbelief ravaging his face at the ripples of Myra's impact still slapping against the ship. Something huge and slimy slithered towards her. Its scales rose up and fell again, diving down after her. A thrashing rose up, then nothing.

"No, no, no, no!" Idira cried, hauling on VanCleef's arm. "Save her, do something!"

VanCleef half-lunged out the window then caught himself. He fell back, stumbling against the table, his jaw slack with shock. "It's too late. She's already gone." He stared out the window into the wall of black beyond, stunned, his eyes welling with tears. "Myra, my love, how will I ever go on without you . . ."

Idira rushed at him, hitting him, screaming and kicking. "How will _you_ ever live without her? _You_ killed her when you butchered Benny!" Rent with helplessness and frustration, she pounded her fists against the hardened slabs of his muscled torso. "Where is my Light?! Why doesn't it come?" she screeched, panting, willing it to come, to punish VanCleef for all his crimes. "Why do you live and they die?" she railed, rage tearing through her, driving her on, even as her hands began to ache. "Why is everything so unfair?"

VanCleef didn't respond, he just stood, sagging against the table, tears streaking his face as Idira pummelled him, shrieking, incoherent until she tasted blood.

"Daddy?" a quiet voice called out, tremulous.

Idira looked up, her chest aching and throat raw. Vanessa stood holding a stuffed toy, her eyes wide and frightened. "Where's Mommy?"

VanCleef pulled free of Idira and went to Vanessa. He knelt and took her into his arms. "Mommy's gone. She's gone to the Light," he sobbed into her hair. "It's just us now."

Idira lowered her fists, her rage melting away as Vanessa wailed, heartbroken, crying for her mommy, begging to know what she had done wrong to drive her away. VanCleef shuddered and wept so hard he couldn't answer her. Idira stared at him, clutching Vanessa against his chest, protective, grieving so hard she almost felt sorry for him. He turned and held out an arm to Idira, beckoning her over so she could join them. Idira shook her head and backed away.

It was over. Her sister was gone. Benny was gone. Idira's heart ached so much she couldn't breathe. She ran up the ladder and pulled the latch free. Unambi stood waiting for her. He opened his arms and she tumbled into them, crying so hard she gagged. He rocked her back and forth, saying he'd heard it all. He murmured other things in his troll language too, soothing things, and as she quieted, drifting in a world of memories, grief and loss she realised Unambi was crying, too.


	11. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER 10**

* * *

Wrapped in blankets within Unambi's hammock, Idira dreamed of Khadgar. He walked alone in a strange, sunken city, passing odd domed buildings constructed from massive ashlars of dark green stone. They crouched low along the city's circular walkways, as though bowing in worship to the vast, angular dome towering above them in the city's centre. From the apex of the central dome, a swirling pillar of white light rotated up into the night sky. Beams of light shot through it, flaring bright as they wove together, intricate.

His arms crossed over his chest, Khadgar scanned the skies, as though searching for something, his eyes moving over the constellations of stars and two moons looming large and heavy on the horizon. Idira stepped closer, expecting to see a younger version of the man from her childhood dream. He turned, his profile emerging from the shadows into the glare of the pillar's light. She stared at him, incredulous. He looked exactly the same as she remembered him from the balcony. Did he not age at all?

"Who are you, and why do you trouble my dreams so?" he asked, his voice resonant, deep and refined. A little thrill ran through Idira at the sound of his voice, it was better than she had imagined it would be. She circled him, drinking in the details of his blue cloth and leather tunic, collar and gloves. Across his back he wore a sturdy wooden staff, its crest carved into the shape of a raven, the gems of its eyes pulsed like a beating heart, slow, emanating power. Beneath the raven's talons, three blue amulets carved with magical symbols hung from leather straps, each of the amulets glowing within a halo of blue light. The raven's eyes flared. Khadgar turned, wary, and pulled his staff free. He held it up. The staff brightened, crackling with violet energy.

"Is it you?" he whispered. "Show yourself."

Idira stopped and looked behind her, suddenly self-conscious. He couldn't sense her, could he? No, impossible. He was on another planet and she was dreaming. She glanced up and met his eyes. She bit her lip. He was looking right at her, or rather through her. He looked older than VanCleef with his tousled silver hair and careworn expression, although he carried it well, his tired features offset by his strong jaw, straight nose, and steel-grey eyes. Several days worth of stubble covered his jaw. She backed up, feeling intimidated by his powerfully built, tall frame. From a safer distance, she eyed him. It was really him, in the flesh, the silver-haired hero of Azeroth, charismatic and handsome.

His staff flared bright. He stepped back, startled. Now he looked right at her, his jaw slack.

"The violet Light belongs to a child?" he whispered, astonished. "No, it cannot be."

"You can see me?" Idira asked, incredulous. He continued to look at her, examining her, moving his staff from side to side.

"Wait!" she spluttered, indignant, as the light from his staff passed over her once more. "I'm not a child! I'm almost twelve-and-a-half."

He didn't answer her, nor did he even seem to realise she was speaking, instead he carried on looking at her, assessing her. "It _is_ the same Light as in my dreams," he murmured to himself. "So rare. But still, a child, how is it possible?"

He shook his head, resigned, and took a step back. He bowed and addressed her, formal. "I would know more of the dreams you have given to me about Azeroth's future, and the orc you call Gul'dan and what I must do to stop him." He stepped closer once more, his eyes narrowing. He let out a little exhalation of frustration. "It's so hard to see you, you shift and waver so."

Idira stared at him. How could her Light be in _his_ dreams?

"Can you speak?" he asked, urgent.

"Yes. Can't you hear me?" Idira answered, impatient. Maybe she just needed to talk louder. "Who's Gul'dan?" she shouted.

"Wait!" His eyes widened, alarmed. He lunged after her, his gloved hand reaching out to grasp her shoulder. She felt a shock as his hand passed through her, warm and tingly. "Come back! I don't understand the dreams. Why do you show me such things, of an orc who is dead yet I must stop before he destroys Azeroth? Why do you come to me?" he asked, anguished. "I am not even in Azeroth anymore!" He faded away.

Idira opened her eyes, Khadgar's curse of frustration still ringing in her ears. From below, the low sound of VanCleef's grieving drifted up into the office, rising and falling, reminding Idira of the farm and the sigh of the ocean's waves washing up against the shore. She peered over the edge of the hammock. Unambi lay asleep on the floor of the cabin, between her and the closed door of the cabin, his daggers beside him.

She eased back into the hammock. Why tonight, of all nights would she have such a dream? Didn't she already have enough to come to terms with? She thought of Myra and Benny, only just gone to the Light, tears filling her eyes anew. They trickled down the side of her face as she stared at the roof of the cabin, her gaze following the seams of the wooden panels fitted together and sealed with tar, refusing to let herself think of how they died, and what would happen to her now, a prisoner to a madman. She shifted a little, making the hammock swing back and forth, the movement soothing her, calming her.

At least Unambi was still there, he would protect her. Maybe one day they would escape. But how? When? Another tear slipped down her cheek. She couldn't think about that now. She couldn't even think about her dream with Khadgar. Another day, another time, when she didn't feel like she was going to shatter into a thousand pieces. Exhausted, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep. This time she dreamed of nothing.

* * *

With Myra gone, VanCleef changed. He lost all interest in the ship, spending his time in the galley, gambling and drinking the hard liquor the pirates carried. At breakfast, as Idira prepared Vanessa's plate, he would sit at the table and stare at Myra's empty seat, his eyes sunken from lack of sleep. He would pull a silver flask from his jacket, his hands shaking and drink deep, then sit, half-turned, waiting for the alcohol to do its work, his legs splayed on his chair, his elbow leaning on the table and his head hanging. A few minutes later he would get up and leave without saying a word.

Sometimes Idira could hear him shouting strange things from the top deck, his words slurred and incoherent, daring someone to fight him, to come and taste his blades. There would be sounds of a scuffle followed by more shouts, and the clatter of swords falling to the deck. Soon Kip and one of the other men would bring an unconscious VanCleef down into his room and throw him onto his bed to sleep off the drink. They would walk out shaking their heads, glancing at her and Vanessa, pity in their eyes.

As the months dragged by and VanCleef's condition worsened, Kip took over the work of finishing the ship, becoming the new leader, though he still treated VanCleef with respect in front of the others. He carved a little set of animals for Vanessa and gave them to her one evening as VanCleef stormed across the top deck cursing and demanding the cannons be fired in honor of Myra.

Vanessa just looked at Kip's gift, laid out on the dining table, her eyes hollow and asked what was wrong with her daddy. Kip shook his head and backed away, Idira knew he didn't want any part of that conversation. He left to contain VanCleef, while Idira went to find a book to read to Vanessa, to try and distract her from the fistfight breaking out on the top deck.

Idira did her best to take care of Vanessa, relying on Unambi to give her the strength to go on, but she soon realised he was suffering too. The lack of fresh air and sunlight made him tired and listless. He spent most of his time in his hammock, sleeping. Idira could understand, she slept too whenever she could. Anything to make the time pass.

One evening, a week after her unremarked thirteenth birthday, she overheard Kip and Unambi talking as they drank in the office. Kip mentioned when he took in the last shipment of goods from the entrance of the mines, there were rumors that the bounty for VanCleef's head had been raised to one thousand gold pieces and champions were gathering to answer the call.

Unambi scoffed and asked why Kip didn't just deliver up VanCleef to Stormwind himself. Kip laughed, hollow, and admitted he was a wanted man, too, as was every other man and creature in the mines by now, including Unambi. He'd decided the attack against Stormwind would have to wait. In the meantime he had agreed with the ship's captain they would sail to Kalimdor, to a place called Ratchet, where they could wait in safety until VanCleef pulled himself together. Unambi had grunted, but said nothing more.

After that, the men worked harder, starting earlier in the morning and working well into the night. A sense of urgency swept over the ship. No one drank or gambled now, even VanCleef kept to himself, sitting alone in his room staring at the wall, whispering to himself about being a family again.

Although Idira spent more time than usual sleeping, she never dreamed of Khadgar again, nor did she have any visions, but that didn't stop her from thinking about him and the tantalising thought that they seemed to share a connection through her Light. Her thoughts of him, and how handsome he was, occupied the long, lonely hours spent waiting to turn her face once more to the warm rays of the sun. Secretly she was glad he hadn't been able to see her properly, she didn't want him to think of her as a child. She wouldn't be a child for much longer. One day she would be a woman full grown and she wanted him to see her like that. But she had to admit, the wait was excruciating now she had seen him up close.

One night, not long after she had learned of VanCleef's bounty, the worst of her fears came true when she experienced her first painful bleed, alone. She was glad she had kept her booklet about becoming a woman with the bank note from Nin still tucked safe within, otherwise she would have thought she was dying. She sent to the galley for linens, washing them out after, desperate to hide her shame from both VanCleef and Vanessa. She had already grown in height, but now her breasts and hips filled out, seemingly overnight. When the pirates began eyeing her as she sat in the office talking to Unambi, Kip told her she had to stay below. She sighed and accepted her imprisonment, but secretly she grieved the loss of her one last solace; Unambi's warm and reassuring presence.

She kept herself busy taking in Myra's two dresses so she could wear them. Her new body made her own dresses too tight, their bodices tearing at the seams and hems brushing against her shins, far above her ankles. She repaired her old dresses and packed them away, saving them for when Vanessa would need them. The first time VanCleef saw Idira wearing Myra's dress, he just stared at her, his eyes glistening with tears. He turned and went up the ladder, and didn't come back for two days.

* * *

A week later, Idira lay on the settee reading one of her favourite fairytales, though her thoughts kept drifting back to her dream of Khadgar. She wondered for the thousandth time what happened after her dream ended, had he continued to call for her? Had he cursed some more? Had he used his magic to try and find her? Over the past nine months, she had played out hundreds of scenarios in her mind. She settled back against the cushions, searching for a new and tantalising alternative with which to entertain herself, but lassitude filled her and she felt herself succumbing to the pull of sleep. Perhaps she would dream of Khadgar. She had just begun to drift off when running feet and shouts of alarm filled the air. She opened her eyes, uncertain whether it had been real or she had dreamed it. A explosion somewhere deep in the mines went off, a heartbeat later a dull boom reverberated through the cavern. She bolted up from the settee, her book falling to the floor with a heavy thump. Vanessa looked up at Idira from the floor where she had been playing with the toy animals Kip had made for her, her eyes huge in her thin, pale face.

"What's happening?" she asked, coming to her feet.

A shout rose up. The first gate of the mine had been breached. Idira bit her lip. There could only be one explanation. The champions from Stormwind had finally come to fight their way into the cavern from the mine's entrance far above. What else could it be? Above, men continued to shout, struggling to get the ship free of the scaffolding, preparing to cast off. VanCleef bolted out of his room, buckling the last straps of his armour, his eyes filled with fire, looking more like his old self than he had in months.

He clambered up the ladder, gripping his belt and scabbarded swords in one hand. His booted feet hurried across the office and out onto the deck.

"Come to me!" he bellowed, desperate, hungry to fight. "My swords long for your blood!"

Kip hollered out another command, and the sound Idira had spent every waking moment longing to hear burst into her senses: shouts of _Heave! Ho!_ echoed through the cavern and the winch came to life, its spikes clanging against the water gate's massive chain. The rest of the men swarmed over the ship, working to free it from the ropes and beams, their feet running to and fro under Kip's frantic commands.

Idira crept up the ladder to the cabin, Vanessa following close behind, whimpering. Unambi materialised out of the cabin's shadows and stood in front of them, barring their way to the open door.

"Dis be bad," he said, his eyes sliding in the direction of the mine's tunnel, uneasy. "Dey got powa'ful dark magic wit' dem, Unambi be feelin' it, an' som'ting else, too." He hissed, his eyes narrowing into slits. "A demon. Da boss can't fight dat."

Over Unambi's shoulder, Idira caught VanCleef striding back and forth, his swords in his hands, his face alight, glaring at the closed gate over the tunnel to the mine shaft, his eyes glittering. Every now and again he would rush to the side of the ship, impatient, and yell at those coming for him, taunting them. The champions drew nearer, the dying screams of those within the mines growing louder with each heartbeat. Idira shuddered. VanCleef's enemies were moving fast, Unambi hadn't lied, they were powerful, very powerful. Kip's yells increased, desperation tingeing his commands.

The winch clanked on, slow, too slow. Shouts and screams came from right outside the gate to the cavern now, the explosions on the other side so loud they made Idira's ears ring. The last of the explosions faded away. Silence fell. She held her breath, waiting. The silence stretched on. A tendril of hope took root in her heart, growing as the silence continued. Had VanCleef's men won?

The men at the winch kept working, valiant, despite their proximity to the gate. With a tremendous groan, the doors split open. A thin beam of light pierced the darkness, sliding across the cavern and over Idira's face. She lifted her hand to her eyes, blinking in the sudden glare. Daylight. A gust of fresh sea air swept past. She inhaled, deep. Her heart swelled, wild with hope. They were going to make it. They were going to be free. Stormwind's champions had done the impossible, they had ended Idira's long imprisonment within the bowels of a mountain. She wished she could go to them and thank them, kneel before them and kiss their hands in gratitude. The beam of light widened. More air rushed in, hungry, washing the cavern free of the stink of its emptied latrines, cleansing it of the smoke of the torches. Freedom. She felt tears filling her eyes, her heart coming back to life. After almost a year trapped in the suffocating dark, she was finally going to be free again. She stepped toward the cabin's door, drawn to the light.

A huge blast shook the cavern, sending the gate flying outwards, rocks tumbled down from the cavern's roof, clattering against the cannons and rolling across the deck. Flaming pieces of timber, remnants of the gate, thudded against the ship's scaffolding; several chunks landed on the ship's deck, skidding across its surface, still burning. Vanessa screamed, her eyes wide. She clung to Idira, shaking with terror.

"Is that all you've got?" VanCleef sneered as he flung the burning pieces back at the champions.

"I want Mommy!" she wailed.

Idira drew Vanessa back into the shadows, her heart plummeting as she heard the screams of the men dying at the winch. She looked up at Unambi. He glanced at VanCleef, standing on one of the cannons, yelling insane things at the champions even as his men fell, one by one to the champions' magic. They had already cleared the cavern and were at the bottom of the scaffolding. Unambi lifted his finger to his lips and shook his head.

 _Quiet,_ he mouthed.

She nodded and knelt beside Vanessa, brushing the hair back from her niece's eyes. "I want you to go down and hide in the cupboard between our beds. You must be very quiet, don't cry or scream no matter what happens. You need to be very, very brave. Can you do that for me? When this is done, I will come for you and we will leave this place and go back out into the sunshine. That will be nice, won't it?"

"With Daddy?" Vanessa sobbed, standing on her toes, watching as VanCleef leapt back onto the deck from the cannon. He pulled a red scarf from his tunic and tied it over the bottom half of his face.

"You will pay for the one I lost!" he screamed, his whole body quaking with anticipation, his fingers flexing on the hilts of his swords. "Today you die!" he spat.

Idira nodded. "Yes, with your daddy." She hurried Vanessa back to the hatch and helped her down the ladder. She heard Kip bellowing to the men at the top of the scaffolding, warning VanCleef they were on him. She half-turned, listening, horrified as he fell, crying out in agony. Her heart clenched. Not Kip.

"Go! Quickly!" She pushed Vanessa down the ladder and closed the hatch, praying the child would do as she was told.

She turned to Unambi, panting, her heart pounding. They would kill him too, once they found him. She looked around the small cabin, there was no place for him to hide. No. She wouldn't lose him too. Not after all she had been through. She felt her Light rising up, only this time, it didn't make her feel sick, and she wasn't afraid; it connected her to Khadgar, it had saved them from Papa at Klaven's Tower, the Light had to be good. She closed her eyes, welcoming its presence as it rose up, suffusing her, surrounding her. She took Unambi's hand.

The sound of booted footsteps neared, a voice she didn't recognise gave commands, cold, efficient. The sound of fighting rose up again, brief, a scream, a grunt and two more bodies hit the deck, lifeless.

She closed her eyes, concentrating. _Make us invisible._ A surge of power swept through her, responding to her request. Euphoria filled her, and raw power, unlike anything she had ever felt before coursed through her.

She opened her eyes. The cabin burned with violet light.

"Ya eyes! Dey be glowin' brighta' den da sun!" Unambi leaned away from her, lifting his hand to shield his eyes.

He shimmered, wavering as though under water, then vanished. She caught her breath. Had she really done that?

"Is dat ya who be doin' dis?" Unambi asked in a hoarse whisper, impressed.

"Can you see me?" Idira whispered back, shivering with delight as the light cascaded through her, streaming like falling stars through her body.

"Ya be gone, and da Light, too." He squeezed her hand, proud. "Whoeva' ya be, ya be real special, Idira, real special."

VanCleef's shout made Idira turn. The champions approached him, hostile. Two wore heavy armour made of plate metal over their whole bodies, slits for their eyes and mouths in their helms were all that revealed someone human existed underneath. One of them carried a pair of enormous two-handed swords that glowed with enchantments, one glowed white, the other red. The other warrior held a mace with a long spike and a chain, glowing blue, in his other gauntleted hand he held a massive shield.

A female moved nearer to the group, she stood much taller than the two warriors, her green hair and pale green skin matching the intricate brown and green leather robe, gloves and shoulders she wore, in her hand she carried a gnarled wooden staff, curled into a loop at the top, flowers bloomed on it, and it glowed green, verdant with life. An illusion of leaves cascaded from it, a continual stream. She smiled and cast a spell, green light flared up around the one carrying the two swords.

"A night elf druid," Unambi breathed, impressed. "Powa'ful heala's."

The other two moved forward, both human, a male with long black hair, tied back into a long tail, wearing a beautiful cloth robe, bearing purple and black designs, his staff bore a rotating black crown at the top, suspending in the air. It streamed an inky vapour a putrid shade of purple, so dark it seemed almost black. Beside him, a huge blue-black shadowy being hovered, shaped like a massive inverted drop of water. It made strange sounds as it waited for its master to command it, a cross between a groan and a shudder, as though it suffered, just by existing.

"Da demon," Unambi murmured, wary. "Dat warlock's dark magic summoned dat ting from da Void."

The last champion stepped forward. Idira gaped, impressed. A beautiful, proud human female, her waist-length silver hair held back in a blue-gemmed silver circlet, looked over VanCleef, disdainful, her lips curving into a sneer. Her gown barely covered her slim body, her cleavage straining at the almost transparent material. Circular blue symbols rotated around her head and hands, glowing, crackling with magic. In her hands she carried a staff, far more impressive than any of the others', little bolts of blue lightning chased each other along its shaft and around its crest, a silver confection surrounded by rotating blue circles and shooting out little bolts of lightning.

"Da mage be da one wit' da most powa'," Unambi muttered, "an' she be knowin' it, too."

"VanCleef," she said, cold, her tone arch and elegant, reminding Idira of Nin's accent. She wondered if the mage was noble, too. "Today you die for the crimes you have committed against the people of Stormwind, for your thieving, your butchery, and your intention to attack the city of Stormwind."

VanCleef scoffed. "I don't think so."

He moved so fast, Idira barely registered it. He threw one of his swords into his other hand, and pulled a blade free from his tunic, it flew from his hand and into her beautiful breast, impaling her heart. Her eyes widened, disbelieving, as she clutched at the dagger's hilt and fell to her knees, the blue symbols surrounding her fading as her blood blossomed outwards, leaching into her gown, covering her hands. No longer arrogant, she struggled to pull the blade free, crying out in agony. Another blade fled from VanCleef's hand and slammed into the base of the druid's throat, stopping her from casting her spell to aid the fallen mage. Her mouth opened and closed in horror, no longer able to speak or cast spells as she scrabbled at the thing, choking and spluttering blood.

The two warriors eyed each other, one of them made a move to go to the druid, the one with the two swords shook his head.

"Not so clever now, are we?" VanCleef taunted from behind his mask. The warlock rushed forward with a desperate cry, his hands lighting up, fiery, his demon sliding toward VanCleef, wailing, agonised. The warlock's eyes moved for a heartbeat to the fallen mage, his love for her plain. A throwing star thudded into the space between his eyes. He collapsed to the ground, lifeless, the demon sighed, and vanished.

"Fools," VanCleef sneered, eyeing the warriors, "love is weakness. Love destroys everything." Another star slammed into the druid's throat, severing her jugular. She slid to the ground, bleeding out in a deep, hard gouts around the blade's serrated edge. She lifted a hand to the warrior carrying the shield and mace, imploring him to go to her. He glanced at the other warrior, and with a murmur, he turned away and knelt beside her, pulling off his helm. He eased the blades from her throat and held her against him, watching her, his eyes glistening with tears as she died, unable to speak, clutching at his arms, her eyes wild with fear and pain.

VanCleef laughed, cold. "Welcome to The Night's Cutlass, where love comes to die."

The druid slumped in the warrior's arms. He stared at her, disbelieving, even as her blood continued to leave her body, spreading out under him, staining his armour. He stood, trembling, furious and lifted his shield and mace.

"Now it's a fair fight, don't you think?" VanCleef spat as he pulled his swords free and ran towards the warriors. "Come to me. Let us end this, _champions_ of Stormwind."

The warriors flanked him, working together, toying with VanCleef, trying to tire him, though they laboured to keep up with his quick, cat-like movements. VanCleef dodged and slid between them, his eyes burning bright, working his blades against their armour, searching for an opening. He ducked, sliding across the blood-soaked deck under the raised arm of the warrior bearing the two great swords, his curved sword slicing deep into the unprotected space under the warrior's arm, his blade finding its way between the warrior's ribs, cutting deep, all the way into his heart. Blood splattered against VanCleef's face and mask. He leapt away, panting and roared, triumphant.

The warrior staggered, struggling to remain on his feet. Bellowing in agony, he fought to lift his sword. It fell from his grip and hit the deck with a heavy thud, its glowing light fading. He turned. Idira could see his blood pumping out, bright red, sliding down his polished armour, streaming, relentless. He stumbled, his legs buckling under him. He slammed down onto his knees. Falling back onto his haunches, he raised a shaking hand to his side. It came back slick with blood. He looked up at the other warrior and shook his head.

The last warrior rushed at VanCleef with a roar, his armoured feet slamming, loud against the deck. He swung his mace, stepping to one side, aiming to strike VanCleef's chest. VanCleef moved away, just as the warrior shifted his weight and turned, completing his feint, and dropped his mace, swinging it low and back up again. The chain slammed against VanCleef's back, sending him crashing into the fallen warrior.

Idira clung to Unambi's hand as the fallen warrior shifted, his gauntleted hand reaching out, slow, inexorable, to grasp VanCleef's ankle, holding him in his iron grip. VanCleef staggered and howled, furious, twisting and slashing, frantic to free himself, his blades crashing against the warrior's plate-sheathed arm, the screech of blade against metal harsh, jarring. The other warrior rushed at VanCleef. Swinging his mace high, he spun it round, so that its spike faced VanCleef's chest.

Idira screamed. VanCleef turned just in time to see the spike. He let go of his swords. They tumbled, clattering, useless, to the deck.

"Myra," he cried, flinging his arms wide, preparing for the spike's deadly kiss. "My life for yours."

The spike slammed into his chest, he juddered as its point burst out from between his shoulder blades. Blood and gore exploded from him out onto the fallen warrior, hitting the warrior's armour with a sickening slap.

VanCleef fell to his knees, lifeless, his body spasmed hard, twice, then went limp, hanging, impaled upon the spike.

Stunned, Idira stared at the panting warrior, who sagged, exhausted, over his quarry. She blinked. After all this time, just like that, VanCleef was dead. It was over. She was free. The warrior pulled his mace free from VanCleef's body with a grunt. He shook it, sending bits of gore and blood splattering over the deck.

He knelt beside the fallen warrior and pulled the warrior's helm away. He was too late, the warrior was already dead. He stood up and looked over the carnage, at the fallen bodies of his comrades and his lover. He bent over, his armour clanking, and picked up one of VanCleef's swords. He kicked VanCleef onto his back and raised the sword high. Idira felt Unambi's hand move over her eyes. She shoved his hand away, impatient. She wasn't a child anymore.

It was already done. The warrior reached down and grabbed hold of VanCleef's dark hair in his metal fist. Blood sprayed from VanCleef's severed arteries, splattering the fallen champions as the warrior walked around, rummaging through the crates and stacks of supplies, grim. He found a hessian sack lying on top of a pile of coiled ropes and dropped VanCleef's head into it. Within heartbeats, blood saturated the bottom of it, seeping out in thick, viscous drops. He tied the sack to his belt and went over to the druid. He picked her up into his arms, shuddering with grief. Clutching her against his blood-smeared armour, he spoke several words, a spell. White light surrounded him and in a heartbeat he faded away, leaving nothing but the impression of a halo of light burned in the backs of Idira's eyes.

Idira sank to her knees, sensing the warmth of the Light leaving her. She looked up and caught Unambi gazing at the fallen, numb. A quiet sound came up from beneath them, the hatch opened, and Vanessa looked out, her eyes sliding to her father's body.

"Daddy?" she called, tremulous. Unambi tried to catch her but she was quick, just like her father. She darted past him and out onto the blood-soaked deck.

She stopped in front of VanCleef, staring, silent at her father's headless, gored body.

"Daddy?" she whispered as she knelt in his blood. She took his hand in hers, and looked at the fallen champions, her eyes narrowing.

"You killed my daddy. I won't forget this. Ever."

* * *

Idira didn't waste any time, now they had the chance to escape, all she could think about was getting out, before something else happened and they would never get away. She hurried to gather whatever she could, blankets, clothes, plates, the silver cutlery and the gold candelabra, stuffing all of it into the leather satchels they had packed in Moonbrook all those long months ago. She took the books too, she couldn't bear to leave them behind. Unambi came back from raiding the galley, carrying provisions and pots for cooking. He had found Blackie hiding between the cupboards and managed to coax her into her basket.

Holding Vanessa's hand, Idira followed Unambi down the scaffolding, walking the same path she had taken eleven months ago, trying to ignore the sounds of the serpents in the waters thrashing on the other side of the ship, feeding on the bodies Unambi had thrown over, to keep them occupied while they made they way out of the cavern on the little rowboat. She had looked for Kip, but he was gone, she wondered if Unambi had pitied him, refusing to leave him to rot like VanCleef and the champions.

Vanessa walked beside Idira silent and withdrawn, her eyes blank, seeming much older than her almost six years.

They reached the boat. Unambi loaded it with their belongings, his armour and daggers. Idira glanced over her shoulder, uneasy. Everywhere, the bodies of the dead lay scattered along the path up to the tunnel, the remains of the gate's timber splintered outwards, jagged, like the sharp teeth of the serpents below.

"Let's be leavin' dis place," Unambi murmured as he lifted Vanessa into the boat. Idira slipped in after her and sat down beside her, reaching up to take Blackie's basket from Unambi. She settled the basket onto her lap, just like when they arrived, only this time Blackie was quiet, as if she sensed her freedom was coming, too.

Vanessa looked up at the ship as Unambi cast off, expressionless. Idira wrapped her arm around her niece's shoulders. In the space of less than a year she had lost both her mother and her father, both of them to violent deaths. Idira tightened her hold on Vanessa as the boat wobbled under Unambi's efforts to row it. He cursed, quiet, struggling to work the pair of oars made for human use. The boat turned in a circle several times, and bumped against the dock more than once before he found his way and settled into the rhythm of rowing, pulling the little boat across the dark waters towards the gates.

Idira kept her gaze on the sliver of light, its sunbeams playing over the black-dark waters of the cavern, brightening and dulling whenever clouds passed over the sun. The scent of sea air beckoned, growing in strength with each passing moment. A gull cried, piercing the dead silence within the cavern, promising freedom. Idira lifted her face to the light, savouring the sun's warmth, listening to the splash of the oars as Unambi rowed on, determined, distancing them from the hated ship with each powerful stroke.

The memory of the dream with Khadgar flashed into Idira's mind, unbidden. She wondered where he was now, if he had found out about the one called Gul'dan. Maybe he was fighting him, even now. She hoped he was safe.

The boat slid into the narrow opening between the doors of the water gate, the space so tight, Unambi had to draw in the oars and pull them through, using his hands and the boat's momentum to drag them between the gates, their sides as thick as the length of the whole rowboat. They emerged out into the late afternoon sunshine, the sea air buffeting them, making Idira's hair blow around her face. The boat bobbed, playful in the choppy waters. Idira smiled. Free. They were free. Finally, it was over.

"Ya got anyplace ya want ta be goin'?" Unambi asked, settling the oars back in the water. He turned his face towards the wind, breathing deep, savouring the fresh, salty air.

Idira nodded, she had already thought it out a thousand times while trapped within VanCleef's ship.

"Follow the coast north," she pointed past the lighthouse. "Let's go home, to the farm. No one will be there, I'm sure of it. We'll be safe. You'll be safe."

Unambi cleared his throat. "Ya don' wan' ta be goin' ta Stormwind, ta da Lady Nin?" he asked, appearing nonchalant though when Idira met his eyes, he looked away. She realised he was afraid she might say yes.

"And have to leave you behind? My best friend? No, where I go, you go, and if you can't go there, I won't go there."

Unambi nodded and started rowing, slow powerful strokes, widening the distance between them and the hateful gates.

"Dat's right," he said to himself, quiet, pleased. "Dat's right. Dat's my Idira."

As the sea air filled Idira's lungs and the sunlight played over her skin, warming it, she hugged Vanessa, hoping the air might help her niece to revive, to grieve. But Vanessa just stared, silent, out at the ocean, her eyes dark and filled with hate.

* * *

Unambi rowed all through the rest of the afternoon and into the night, even as the sky's canopy darkened and began to blossom with stars and constellations. Idira watched the stars come out, one by one, their reflections cold and sharp against the dark waters of the ocean. She wondered which bright light was Khadgar's home. One star sparkled, bright, rotating, its colours shifting, red, orange, blue, white. Could that be where he was? He had looked up at the sky that night she met him, searching, too. Was he looking at his sky right now, even as she was looking at hers? She shivered, the thought pleasing her.

"Wait for me," she whispered to the star. "Please just wait for me to grow up. Don't find someone else first."

"Did ya say som'ting?" Unambi asked, his face shadowed in the starlight.

Idira blushed and shook her head. She stroked Vanessa's head on her lap. Her niece had finally fallen asleep, lulled by the rhythmic sound of Unambi's rowing, and the susurration of the waves crashing against the shore.

Ahead, the outline of mountains began to block Idira's view of the sky, their familiar peaks and valleys triggering memories long forgotten. She turned to look toward the shore. There. In the distance a little building stood alone, perched near the cliff's edge, surrounded by vast reaches of emptiness. Her breath caught. _Home._

Under her quiet instructions, Unambi steered the boat up onto the shore. He jumped out and pulled it up onto the beach into the little cove where the crab pots used to be, where Idira had been saved from a vicious murloc by another murloc. She eyed the long sea grasses, growing in large clusters between them and the overgrown cliff path leading up to the farm, hoping there wouldn't be any bad murlocs.

Unambi stood up and stretched, working out the kinks in his muscles as he looked around, taking in their new surroundings. He grunted, a sound of approval. Idira hid her smile, secretly pleased he liked it.

A rustle came from the cluster of sea grass nearest them, Unambi reached into the boat and took out one of his daggers, wary.

A murloc stepped out, curious, its dark scales glistening in the light of the stars. It turned its head from side to side, and looked at Idira, eyeing her with its big, wet eyes. It made a little sound in its throat, it sounded like a question, almost hopeful. It went back into the sea grass, and returned a heartbeat later carrying something in its hands. It approached Idira, scuttling sideways out of Unambi's reach, holding what it had up to her.

A crab.

It asked again, soft. Something clattered, quiet, around its neck. Idira leaned closer. Her breath caught. The seashell necklace. The one she had left for her murloc friend all those years ago.

Idira choked as she accepted its gift, tears spilling from her eyes. "You waited for me. All these years, you never forgot me." She looked up at Unambi, watching her, his eyes soft.

"This is my friend," she whispered, "it saved my life once."

"Da Light be protectin' ya," Unambi murmured, his voice catching. He looked at the murloc. "Now ya be gettin' a new friend." He put his hand to his chest. "I be Unambi."

The murloc eyed Unambi for a long time. It glanced at Idira, then imitated Unambi, patting itself on the chest, making a short guttural noise with a little trill at the end. It turned and ran toward the cliff path, bouncing from one foot to the other, excited, waiting for them to follow.

"Ya be ready to go home?" Unambi asked, as he reached in to pick up Vanessa, still fast asleep.

"I am," Idira answered as she picked up Blackie's basket. "Let's go home."

The house looked the same as it had when she left. Run-down and forlorn; the windows and door still boarded up. It felt as though no one had been there since the day they left. The pot belly stove still stood where Borda had left it in the middle of the yard. So, the men hadn't come back for it after all. Somehow it didn't surprise her. She wondered if it could still be used. Unambi pulled the planks away from the door, dessicated after years of heat and drought, they snapped apart, brittle. Dust filled the porch, making Idira's throat itch. He went inside, to check for 'nasty tings like big spidas'. But the house was empty, not even a mouse stirred within.

He made two trips to the boat, carrying up their bags while Idira waited with Vanessa and the murloc, her niece eyeing the creature, curious, saying she had seen one of those before, in the galley of the ship, working as the chef. She had called it Cookie. Idira shook her head, amazed. All that time, and this was the first she had heard about it. A murloc, on the same ship as her, and she had never even known about it. Vanessa could certainly keep secrets.

The bags safe in the house, Unambi made a little fire out in the yard and prepared and cooked the crab, using the pots and utensils he had brought from the ship's galley. The murloc stayed with them for awhile, sitting to one side, watching them with its big eyes, making little happy sounds in its throat, it left before they sat down to eat on the porch, under the warm summer sky and the glow of the stars; quiet, companionable, peaceful. Unambi hung up his hammock in the bedroom, insisting Idira and Vanessa sleep in it. He gave it a little push, so they rocked, soft, lulled by the swaying of their bed and the sound of the waves crashing beneath the cliffs against the shore. He spread a blanket on the floor and lay down, Blackie curling up beside him, still licking her paws after her crab dinner. Idira wrapped her arm around Vanessa and for the first time in a very long time, fell asleep, content.

* * *

Idira woke in the middle of the night, sensing something had changed. Vanessa was gone. Warm and comfortable in her blanket, Idira assumed Vanessa had left to use the outhouse. She dozed for awhile, waiting for her niece to come back, but when she didn't, even after a long wait, Idira sat up, a twinge of worry catching at her heart.

She left the hammock, careful not to disturb Unambi and slipped out of the house. Maybe Vanessa was sick. She approached the outhouse, cautious. Its door drifted back and forth in the night air, unlatched. She knocked. No answer. She peeked inside. Empty. Alarmed, Idira turned, scanning the wide, open plains surrounding the farm. Nothing.

Maybe Vanessa wanted to be alone, to grieve, but Idira couldn't be sure, something felt off. Keeping quiet, she searched the yard and around the house and even went halfway down the cliff path. She took in the clefts, rock pools and grassy sand dunes spread across the beach, lit by light of the rising moon. The boat still sat where they had left it. Nothing moved, apart from the sea grasses rippling in the ocean breeze. She went back up to the house, hoping she had somehow missed Vanessa, and her little niece had returned while Idira was on the cliff path. She reached the house and knelt to look under the porch, just to be thorough. Only rubble and weeds greeted her. She stood up, brushing the dust from her dress. She closed her eyes. _Show me._ She waited, hoping her Light would help her.

Her Light filled her, soothing and warm. She opened her eyes, pleased. She was getting good at this. The faint image of a man stood before her, stuttering and flickering, cast in the dim glow of her violet light. He reached his hand out to her, as though saying something. He turned and looked over its shoulder, then back to her urgent. He leaned forward, and the image shimmered, coming into focus, just for a heartbeat.

Idira bit back a cry. Khadgar.

He looked over his shoulder, abrupt. He pulled his staff free and turned to fight an invisible opponent.

She reached out to touch the image, her fingers trembling. She had never seen him outside of the dream state. Was he seeing her right now, like she saw him? Was this how he had seen her that night in her dream, flickering and dim, just on the edge of his vision? Her fingers brushed against his tunic, she could _feel_ the wool. Blood splattered against her fingers, hot. She snatched her hand back with a cry.

He shouted something to her over his shoulder, though she could hear nothing. He turned back to face his enemy once more. He lifted his staff high. A bolt of violet light shot through him and he vanished.

Idira staggered backwards, blinking, temporarily blinded by the sudden burst of bright light.

She heard the creak of the front door. Footsteps crossed the porch.

"Vanessa?" she called, squinting into the shadows.

"What ya be doin' out here, in da dark?" Unambi asked, quiet.

She jumped, startled to hear his voice and not Vanessa's. She turned, shaking, to point at the place where Khadgar had just been, her vision returning slow and steady. "Did you . . . did you see that?"

Unambi moved down the steps of the porch, eyeing the spot. "Dere be nothin' Unambi be seein'."

Idira blinked. Khadgar. She had touched him. She looked down at the blood on her hand. She held it up to Unambi. "Then, can you see this?"

Unambi looked at her hand then back at her. "What's Unambi meant ta be seein'?"

She touched the blood. It vanished as though it had never been, the skin on her hand pale and clean once more.

"It's gone," she whispered. She looked up at Unambi, her eyes filling with tears. What if Khadgar was hurt? What if it had been his blood on her hand? She couldn't bear it. The Light was cruel, only showing her tiny fragments of him, and none of it making any sense.

"Da Light be gettin' stronga' in ya," Unambi murmured, nodding. "I been waitin' for dat. Don' ya be worryin' Unambi be helpin' ya to use it, he be knowin' a ting or two about da magic."

Idira rubbed the back of her arm across her eyes, forcing her tears away, ashamed to be of thinking of Khadgar when Vanessa was missing.

"Vanessa's gone," she whispered. "I was trying to find her with my Light, instead I saw someone else."

Unambi patted Idira's shoulder, gentle. "Ya be savin' da Light for ya'self. It don' be for everyone. Unambi be a Gurubashi, he be da one ta be findin' Vanessa." He held out his hand. "Let's be goin'."

"No," Idira pulled back. "I want to stay here and wait, in case she comes back."

Unambi shifted, uneasy. "I don' like ta be leavin' ya behind."

Despite her inner turmoil, and her fear for Khadgar, Idira found a smile for Unambi. "It's alright, this is my home, I know every nook and cranny. And I have the boat if I need it. Anyway, someone has to stay. If Vanessa comes back and we are both gone, she might leave again."

Unambi looked down at his hands, he clenched them into fists, his unwillingness to leave Idira behind tangible. She touched his hand. "I have the murloc, I am not alone. Please find her, you'll be faster alone."

He shook his head, reluctant. "I don' be likin' dis." He looked out over the horizon, then back at Idira, fierce. "I won' be long. Don' make me regret dis."

"Go," Idira urged him, thinking of how much time had already passed and the hyenas that roamed the fields. "Bring her home."

He went into the house and came back out wearing his armour, his daggers at his hips. He moved across the yard, back and forth, seeking Vanessa's trail, he stopped and crouched down. He grunted and got up, loping away across the fields, following Vanessa's footsteps. His silhouette moved over a low hill and merged with the horizon. Idira turned back to the spot where Khadgar has stood. _Show me._ She whispered.

Nothing happened. She wondered what had changed. Maybe she needed to be frightened? She tried to be afraid and asked again. Nothing happened. She went to the porch and sat down on the steps, the night's breeze warm against her skin, blowing tendrils of her hair across her face. She tucked them behind her ears, trying to puzzle out what had changed.

She looked up at the stars again and found the one she hoped belonged to Khadgar. It had transited across the sky and now lay low on the horizon. Soon it would be gone. She felt her heart clench. _Don't go._

A thought struck her. She sat up straight, chills running down her spine. What if it only worked when they were both under the influence of the Light at the same time? When she had dreamed of him, he had been thinking of her, or at least of her Light. Tonight, something must have been happening in his world and he needed answers, and he had called to her Light at the same time she had asked the Light for help.

She sat back, leaning against the top step of the porch and scoffed, bitter. What was she supposed to do, use the Light all the time waiting for the chance to see Khadgar's shadow and him to see hers? She scuffed her shoe in the dust. None of it made any sense. _Was_ she able to use her Light or was the Light using _her_? She turned her attention back up to the star, watching as it lowered into the distant horizon.

"I don't know what I am," she whispered, her fingers moving to her hand where the blood had landed. "But if my Light can do anything, please just protect him and keep him safe."

A tingling shot through her, fading as fast as it arrived. She sighed. She had no idea what had just happened. Perhaps she had helped him. She hoped so, but she would never know.

* * *

Unambi returned alone, just as the sky shifted from a deep shade of pink to orange, heralding the dawn of a new day.

Idira stood up, never having left her spot, having waited, hoping her niece would return, safe. Unambi went to the well without saying a word and drew a bucket of water. He drank deep before coming to her. He settled into his crouch. She waited.

He told her, grim, how he had found Vanessa just in time to see her knocking on the door of a ramshackle farmhouse, two hours walk distant. The door opened and an old man and woman had looked out, wary. She'd said something and they'd stared at her, astonished, before bundling her inside. He couldn't hear what she'd said, even with his enhanced hearing. He'd had to stay far back, behind a hill, using the only cover he could find.

"I don't understand," Idira said. "Why would she run to strangers when she had us? And what could she tell them to make them want to help her? She's the daughter of VanCleef, a man hated by anyone not in the Brotherhood." She eyed Unambi. "Or do you think they were in the Brotherhood?"

Unambi scoffed and looked away. "Dey too old ta be anyting. She be a child. She only be seein' in black an' white." He picked up a stone, and tossed it across the yard. "I neva' tried ta help VanCleef. She be knowin' dat."

Idira stared at him. "What are you saying?" she asked. "That despite her grief, a six-year-old had the presence of mind to use you to get away from the ship, with the intention to leave us as soon as she had the chance? For what reason?"

Unambi sniffed and looked back at Idira, his eyes cold. "We don' be on da same side, her and me. I be seein' it in her eyes all da time I be rowin' dat boat. She couldn't stand da sight o' me. She be needin' someone ta blame for her father's downfall. Dat one seems ta be me, for now."

"Do you think she will tell those people about us?" Idira felt her hands clench into fists, a slash of resentment shooting through her. She'd had one day of happiness. One.

Unambi grunted. "We be findin' out soon enough, but I don' tink so. If I be guessin' I don' tink she be tellin' dem da truth, she's got a plan, dat one. She be pointin' in da opposite direction o' us, ta Jac's camps."

Idira said nothing. What was there to say? What could she do? Tears gathered in her eyes. Even dead, VanCleef still managed to cause misery. Her last connection to her sister, gone, because of him. She had believed with his death and their liberation the pain was over and she could begin to heal, but no, it was going to take a little while longer yet. She turned away, went back into the house and climbed into the hammock. She closed her eyes, exhausted and slept, dreaming of Myra, of Benny, of Vanessa and of VanCleef, and finally of Khadgar and the balcony on the floating city. He smiled at her and conjured a little bird in his hand. She touched its soft breast before it flew away, down into the gardens of the city.

When she woke a few hours later, she thought of the bird and realised her heart ached just a little bit less.


	12. Chapter 11

**CHAPTER 11**

* * *

Idira woke parched and perspiring. She peeled off her blanket and emerged from the house's suffocating heat to find the sun already high in the sky. Heat waves shimmered on the horizon, making the distant hills waver, their low ridges distorting in the broiling air. Unambi nodded at her as she passed him on her way to the well. Clad only in his kilt, he crouched in the shade of one of the acacia trees, sharpening one of the knives he had brought from the ship's galley.

She hoisted up a bucket of water and filled the wooden cup that hung from the hook on the beam supporting the well's roof. It had hung there ever since they'd left all those years ago. It might have needed a good cleaning, but otherwise, it was as if she had never been gone, the intervening years irrelevant. She drank, marvelling at the icy coldness of the water when the air was so hot. In a rare moment of fatherliness, Papa had once said he believed the well tapped into an aquifer fed by the mountains' glaciers. She refilled the cup and brought it to Unambi. He took it with a nod, drinking as she eyed the stove, wondering anew if they would be able to salvage it. It looked clean, very clean, better than she ever remembered it. She opened the latch to the fuel chamber and looked inside. It was spotless. She glanced at him, astonished. He got up and hefted it under one arm, carrying it across the yard, the door to its fuel chamber still hanging open, wobbling back and forth as he lurched up the porch's steps.

It took longer than she expected to get the stove back into place and the pipes properly connected. When Unambi finally lit it, the house filled with smoke. With a muffled curse, he doused the kindled flames and went up onto the roof, holding a long stick. Straddling the roof's peak, he probed the chimney pipe, working to free an old bird's nest lodged halfway down. Bits of branches and feathers rained down onto Idira, sticking to her hair. He slipped a little and her heart juddered, dread gnawing at her. He righted himself in time but from then on, Idira couldn't stop herself from fretting. She hopped from one foot to the other, eyeing the treacherous slates, calling to him, warning him, terrified she might lose him too. He must have known, because when he was done he came down and without saying a word, gathered her up into his arms and rocked her back and forth, singing a little troll song to her. She clung to him, letting him stroke her hair as she mourned Myra, Benny, Kip and Vanessa. She even cried for the books she had had to abandon in Moonbrook, to moulder in the darkness, unloved.

Over the next few days Idira didn't accomplish much, now her ordeal was finally over, she succumbed to an overwhelming fatigue. She would fall asleep laying on a blanket under the trees, sleepy from the heat and the warmth of the sunlight dappling her pale skin. Unambi didn't say much, he kept himself busy working in silence, lost in his thoughts, distant. Idira left him alone. She understood. She needed time to herself as well. Too much had happened over the years without either of them ever having the time or space to come to terms with their many traumas. Now that her oppressor had fallen, she had time to grieve, to reflect, and to heal. The months spent in the darkness, locked in tight confinement had done something to her, robbed her of something, she could feel the lack within herself, a hollowness. She hoped it would come back, with time.

Whenever she wasn't sleeping, she spent her time sitting at the top of the cliff path, looking out over the sea, her legs dangling over the edge, savouring the wind in her hair and the sun on her body. Sometimes her murloc friend came to sit with her, burbling to himself as he looked at the sea, happy just to be. His joyful presence warmed Idira's shattered heart, bringing life back into her soul. Each morning she rose to find a fresh-caught gift waiting on the doorstep; fish, squid, crab, once a woven seagrass basket full of clams.

After a week spent idling, Idira felt herself growing restless; feelings of anger and resentment began to plague her. Unambi said keeping busy was the best way to move on from the 'bad tings'. He offered to give her little tasks, things to occupy her mind, which would also help him in his work. The first task he gave her was to collect seashells. For three days she scoured the beach, helped by the murloc, carrying back whatever she could find gathered into a linen towel.

Under the butt of his dagger, he smashed the shells into small fragments before adding them to a soupy, foul-smelling mixture of clay, grass, and hyena dung he'd prepared in one of the old slop buckets he'd found behind the house. When it was the right consistency, he smeared the substance into the cracks in the walls of the house, filling the gaps and crevices. Idira wasn't too happy about the smell, but he promised her the stink would fade once the sun baked everything dry.

Her next task sent her back to the beach to hunt for the toughest, thinnest stalks of sea grass. Her murloc, whom she had started to call Margle, met her at the bottom of the path and followed her, watching, curious, as she hunted for the right ones. He caught on quickly enough and after disappearing for several minutes, returned carrying more than a dozen in the time it took her to find three. By lunchtime, they'd already gathered two large bundles. She carried them up, wondering what Unambi needed them for. When she reached the top of the cliff path, she found him on the roof, straightening the roof's slates at the back of the house.

She called out to him, holding up her bounty to show him, but he didn't look at her, instead he turned, abrupt, and peered around the side of the roof in the opposite direction. He sank into a low crouch, though she doubted whoever he was looking at would have seen him since he was already quite low down on the roof, almost to the eaves.

He dropped to the ground and gestured for Idira to go to him, she hurried over, following him as he moved to the corner of the house and peeked around the edge.

He pulled back. "Dat be no wanderer," he murmured, uneasy. "Someone be comin'."

Idira felt her heart stutter. So, Vanessa had told on them after all.

"Let's make for the boat," she said, setting aside the bundles. "We can row out of sight until they leave."

Unambi shook his head. "We can't be stayin' on da boat foreva. Dey can already see dat da boards be gone. Dey won' be leavin' witout ansa's." He leaned out to look once more. He let out a breath of relief, his posture losing some of its tension. "Dere be only da one. A young one."

"Do you want me to go and talk to them?" Idira asked, hoping she sounded braver than she felt.

Unambi narrowed his eyes, watching their visitor. "Dat might be da best," he said. "If ya be runnin' inta trouble Unambi will come ta ya. Jus' ya go an' see what dis boy be wantin'. It might be we got nothin' ta fear, it might be we do, eitha' way, we got ta be knowin'."

Idira heard footfalls approaching, scuffing, cautious against the dusty earth.

"Hello?" a young man's voice called out, hesitant. "Is anybody here?"

Unambi nodded at Idira and moved aside, letting her pass. She brushed the sand from her dress and pushed her hair back, trying to tidy it a little. She stepped out. The visitor turned towards her, defensive, his hands hovering over the hilts of his daggers.

"Oh," he said. He sagged, his relief tangible. He moved his hands away from his daggers. "Where are your parents?" he asked, eyeing the house, noting the improvements.

Idira shrugged. "Not here."

"Um, then when will they be coming back?"

"Never," Idira answered and moved a little closer to him. He looked vaguely familiar. She tried and failed to place him. Maybe she had seen him in the kitchen in Moonbrook, Cook was always taking deliveries. That had to be it.

He glanced back at her. "Then who removed the boards and took away the—" he blinked, and stared at her incredulous. "By the Light!" he exclaimed moving closer. "Is it really you?"

"I don't know. Who am I supposed to be?" Idira asked, noticing his cheeks had begun to darken. Maybe he was hot. She should offer him some water. She went to the well, fetched a bucket and filled the wooden cup. She held it out to him. He didn't move.

"Aren't you thirsty?"

"Oh, um, yes, actually I'm really thirsty. It's just—" he took the cup and drank, noisy. He handed back the empty cup and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Everyone thought you were dead. They said no one survived the attack in the mines."

Idira shrugged again. "Well, here I am."

"Of all the people I could have met today!" he burst out, excited. "It's like I'm dreaming. You're Idira, right? Jac Northshire's daughter, the one VanCleef raised? Everyone in Moonbrook has heard about you because you have magic purple eyes. I heard a story once, I don't know if it's true, but they say you almost killed Jac out at Klaven's Tower using your eyes. I used to see you sitting in your window, looking out at the square. I smiled at you once." His cheeks went red again. He looked down and scuffed the toe of his boot against the side of the well. "I'm sure you wouldn't remember."

Idira stared at him, her memory organising, that's where she remembered him from, the apprentice from the blacksmiths. He was the only boy who had ever smiled at her in the whole time she had lived in the house. He had changed a lot since then. No longer a boy but a young man, his square jaw just beginning to sport the very first signs stubble. His short dark hair stuck up in several places, messy and little dirty. His leather armour looked old, and was patched in places, though he was clearly beginning to fill it out admirably well. He thrust out his hand to her.

"I'm Logan. I patrol the north-western part of Westfall for the People's Militia. I'm based in Sentinel Hill. It's pretty dead up this way, nothing ever happens here, that's why Borda gave me the job until I get some more experience. Worst thing I've had to face so far was a hungry Roc. I killed it. No problem."

She took his hand, and he pumped it up and down. "I can't wait to tell the others you're alive and safe. I'm sure they will—"

A knife slammed into the beam supporting the well's roof, right beside Logan's head, little splinters of dry wood splattered against Logan's armour. He yelped and spun around, scrabbling for his daggers.

Unambi strode over and pulled the knife out of the beam, his eyes yellow slits, menacing. "Ya don' be tellin' no one about da girl."

"Wha- what are you?" Logan spluttered, his eyebrows climbing so high, they almost disappeared under his greasy mop of hair. He glanced at Idira while still somehow managing to keep one eye on Unambi at the same time. "Is this _thing_ holding you here against your will?"

"He's my friend," Idira said, "and he's right. You can't tell anyone I'm here."

Logan eyed Unambi, uncertain. He looked at Idira again.

"Why not?"

"Because it's what I want," Idira replied, quiet.

Logan didn't say anything for a long time. He sighed and shook his head. "Alright, I won't say anything, but I'm only doing it because you want it, not because _he_ says I have to."

"Who else be comin' dis way?" Unambi asked, shoving his way into Logan's space.

"No one," Logan said, backing up until his backside pressed against the wall of the well. "I mean, at least from the People's Militia, there's only me. There haven't been any reports of Jac's men in this part of Westfall for more than a year, though it doesn't mean it won't ever happen. With Jac, you can't ever be sure, although we are doing a good job of keeping him in the south-east." He picked up the cup and dipped it into the pail of water and took another drink, trying and failing to act nonchalant. "Shame he still has Moonbrook though. Now VanCleef's gone, it'd be nice to have our town back."

Unambi leaned in until his tusks almost touched Logan's face. "Can ya be gettin' us some tings?"

"Like what?" Logan croaked, backing away until he leaned over the well at an awkward angle. His boots slid in the dust and he lost his balance. He scrabbled to grab onto the well to stop himself from falling in, his face turning bright red once more.

Unambi pulled back. "Tings for da farm, like seeds, an' nails, an' we be needin' some propa' furnishin's for da girl."

Logan pushed away from the well. He crossed his arms over his chest and paced in front of Unambi, giving the appearance of considering what he needed to do, though it wasn't convincing, since Idira had seen his hands shaking.

"You don't want me to tell anyone she's here," he said, "but I'm supposed to find a way to get furniture to you without anyone asking questions?" He scoffed and rolled his eyes at Idira.

Unambi glanced to the north. "What be up dat way?"

"Elwynn Forest and eventually, Stormwind." Logan stopped pacing, suddenly wary. "Why?"

"Ya be sayin' dat no one be comin' dis way besides yaself, so ya can be bringin' da supplies from da north."

Logan scratched his neck. "Well, ye-es, but that's only part of the problem. I would also need money, and as you can see, I don't really have any."

Unambi grunted. "Wait dere." He went into the house and came out gripping a pair of VanCleef's golden candelabra in one hand. He tossed them down onto the ground in front of Logan's worn, dusty boots. "Dis be helpin' ya wit dat problem."

Logan's eyes widened. He knelt down and traced a dirty finger over one of their intricately cast curved arms, reverent. "I'm not even going to ask where these came from. But this could get you everything you need, and probably more."

"So ya be helpin' da girl or not?"

Logan stared at the ground, considering. He looked up at Unambi. "I'll do it. But I'm not doing it for you, I'm doing it for Idira." He came back to his feet. "I could come back on my next free day and collect these on my way to Stormwind."

"Den we do dat." Unambi nodded. "When ya come back we be havin' a list ready for ya. And if ya be stealin' dis for yaself, Unambi be findin' ya and leavin' ya wishin' ya neva' been born."

Logan looked offended. "I'm no thief, if I was I'd be in Moonbrook with Jac's men, and not in the People's Militia fighting against him."

Unambi narrowed his eyes, searching Logan's face. Logan glared back at him, defiant. Unambi nodded, slow. "I tink ya be tellin' da truth."

"Huh!" Logan huffed, offended anew.

He turned to look at Idira, where she still stood by the well. She noticed he had very blue eyes, like the sky. Two spots of colour flared anew on his cheeks.

"I'll get you real nice things, I promise," he said, soft.

When Idira didn't say anything, he turned back to Unambi. "My next free day is in twelve days, I'll get here before dawn. It's going to take all day to get to Stormwind, buy everything and come back, but I don't mind. It'll be an adventure. I lived in Stormwind for awhile a couple of years back when my family fled Moonbrook. I know of a buyer in the Old Town who'll buy these no questions asked."

He left soon after. Idira watched him as he moved across the fields into the heat waves, his body distorted by the liquid light. He stopped at the crest of a hill and turned to wave at her. He shifted his weight, squinting in the glare of the sun, waiting for her to wave back, when she didn't he turned with a noticeable sigh and moved down the hill, looking back at her one last time just before being swallowed up by the horizon.

"Do you really think we can trust him?" Idira asked, uneasy. She didn't like the thought that after only a few days they had been discovered. What if Logan told someone, his pride at having found her overcoming his fear of Unambi? Their idyll would come to an end and she would be taken away from her best friend. A sudden wave of bitterness washed over her as she hung the cup Logan had used back onto the support beam. When she was a child, no one ever came to the farm except for Benny, and he only made the journey because of Myra. A flash of anger shot through her as she yanked the water pail up tight against the well's roof, to keep the dust out of it. This was her father's fault. If it wasn't for him and his gang of thugs, there would be no need of a patrol.

Unambi's chuckle breached her thoughts. She turned, annoyed by his attitude and glared at him.

"What's so funny?" she snapped, irritable. "This is serious, and you're laughing?!"

"Ya be frettin' for nothin'," he answered, his gaze moving to the hill Logan had just descended. "Ya can trust dat boy, more den ya eva' be knowin'."

Idira had no idea how Unambi could be so certain, but he didn't say anything more. He just shook his head, still chuckling and headed back to his work on the roof. He got as far as the side of the house before he erupted into laughter, laughing so hard he doubled over and wiped the tears from his eyes.

"Dat Light," he panted as he slapped his thigh, "oh dat Light! It be workin' in da _most_ mysterious ways."

* * *

Twelve days later, just as he said he would, Logan arrived an hour before dawn, during that soft, quiet time when the night held its breath, and all its creatures lay silent and still, waiting for the first light of a new day.

He came in, his boots scuffing, loud against the bare floorboards. His hair had been washed and combed and his armour looked recently polished. He pulled a little linen bag from his belt and held it out to Idira. She opened it. A warm, bitter scent rose up from the dark beans nestled inside. She looked up at him, perplexed.

"It's coffee," he said, smiling, shy. "It's from my rations, I thought you might like to have some. You'll need to grind it first of course." He took the bag from her and looked around the empty house searching for one. His cheeks reddened. "Oh right. You don't have one. I didn't think about that. I'll just, um, make sure to buy you one today. No problem." He handed the bag back to her, awkward.

Unambi held out the list. Logan looked it over. "Um. I'm probably going to need to buy a horse and wagon to get all this back to you."

"Ya be doin' whatever ya need ta. Jus' ya get dese tings."

"Right. I can do that. I know a lot about horses and wagons from working in the smithy." He looked up, eager for their approval. No one said anything. His cheeks flamed anew, bright red in the stove's firelight. He scratched his head. "Well, I guess I better be going. Lots to do." He knelt and wrapped the waiting candelabra into some lengths of wool, packing them into the hessian sack he'd brought. He looked up at Idira. "The cloth is so they don't clank and draw unwanted attention." He tapped his forefinger against his temple. "I was thinking ahead."

Idira said nothing. His cheeks darkened again as he hefted the bag onto his shoulder and turned to go. He went to the door and reached out for the door's latch.

"Wait," Idira said, her heart clenching. She couldn't bear to waste her chance. She had already spent twelve days dithering over this. It was now or never.

He turned, his face brightening, hopeful. She went to her book about growing up and pulled out Nin's bank note. She held it out to him, hesitant.

"Use this to buy me as many books as you can."

He reached out and took it, his eyes widening as he read the amount. "I can get a lot of books for this. Um. What kind of books do you want? Fairytales I guess?"

Idira shook her head. "Books about using magic. Anything you can find. Oh. And maybe some books about the hero Khadgar, too, if they have any." She felt warmth creeping into her cheeks. She turned away, embarrassed. "That's all. You can go now."

"Um. Right. No problem. I'll get your books." She heard the rustle of the note as he tucked it into his tunic. The door opened and his booted feet scuffed their way out and down the steps.

"Bye!" he called out from the shadows. This time he didn't wait for a reply. He moved on, hurrying towards the north, his footsteps swallowed by the silence of the night.

* * *

The day dragged, hot and oppressive. They occupied themselves making nets for the crab traps from the sea grasses Idira had collected and then spent several days rubbing with fish oil before hanging them to dry in the shed's rafters.

Making nets was slow, laborious, and not very challenging. Unable to escape her thoughts, Idira sat on the porch and endured in silence the gnawing fear she had made a terrible mistake trusting Logan with her bank note. He was probably never going to come back, and worse, he was probably going to tell someone about them. He had almost all their gold now, so why wouldn't he? He had nothing to lose, he could just go to Stormwind and live like a king.

She yanked on the softened stalks of grass, weaving them tightly together, her movements jerky and rough. She shouldn't have given him the bank note, it was a foolish, thoughtless thing to do. But as he stood there, about to leave, she couldn't resist taking the chance. The thought of having books which might explain her magic and how to use it had driven her to stop him. At the time, she couldn't bear the thought he might return trustworthy, and bookless. It would have plagued her with regret for years. But now she regretted having trusted him. Of course he would not come back. He was probably spending her gold right now, sitting in a tavern and buying drinks for everyone, pretending to be a big man.

She huffed, furious as she tied off the completed braid and set it aside onto the pile beside her. Without thinking, she gathered up three new stalks, her fingers working, automatic. Unambi was wrong, they couldn't trust him, they couldn't trust anyone. That boy was going to betray them, she was sure of it. She jerked the strands together, her movements matching her thoughts. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. If she ever saw him again, she would slap his ridiculous, red face right off his head.

* * *

Dinner came and went. Idira went onto the porch and watched the sun lower its bulk onto the horizon, streaking the western sky in brilliant shades of deep pink and purple. Across the sky's twilit canopy, the brightest stars blossomed, twinkling, bright and happy, heralding the arrival of their lesser companions. Darkness crept over the land and the chirp of crickets began to fill the night air, crescendoeing as the ground radiated its heat back into the atmosphere. She glared at Unambi from her vigil on the porch steps, her arms crossed over her chest. This was all his fault. He had thought it was funny. Well now he would learn his lesson. He didn't know everything, after all.

The hours passed. Thick clouds scudded across the sky, obscuring the light from the stars and moon. The night deepened and the darkness thickened. Despite her indignation, Idira felt the heaviness of fatigue creeping up on her. She fought it, struggling to keep her eyes open, ignoring Unambi's suggestion she go inside to sleep; his promise he would stay up and wait. She shook her head, trying to clear the fog from her mind. It was starting to be hard to remember why she was there and not in the hammock. A brief glimmer flared, dim in her mind. That's why. She had to remain on the porch, to prove she was right. Right about what? Nothing came to her. She couldn't remember. Her eyelids drifted down, leaden. She fought to open them. It was too much effort. She lowered her head onto the rough planks, pillowing her forehead against the crook of her arm. She would rest her eyes just for a few minutes, at least until she could remember why she was sitting the porch's steps in the dead of the night and what she was right about.

The sound of hooves hitting the hard earth drifted into Idira's awareness. She blinked, trying to clear her vision and found herself on a wagon, the one she rode in all those years ago as it left their yard on its way to Moonbrook. She looked back at the house, at the pot belly stove standing forlorn in the yard. She would have to tell them she knew they didn't come back for it. She looked down at Blackie on her lap, safe within her crate. Soft voices broke into her thoughts. One of them sounded like Unambi. That didn't make sense, she glanced up. Unambi sat across from her on the wagon, smiling to himself. The murloc, Margle crouched beside him holding a dead crab in its hands. She stared at them, confused, this wasn't how it happened. Where was the furniture they had left with, the chickens? She glanced at the front, expecting to see Myra and Papa and Borda. She gaped. Khadgar's broad back faced her, the material of his blue woollen tunic pulled taut, his gloved hands working the reins as he drove the horses. Sitting on the bench beside him, Logan talked non-stop, his hair sticking up every which way, going on about coffee beans and needing to buy a grinder.

Idira woke with a start, her mouth and eyes dry as dust. She lifted her head, slow, working out the kink in her neck. Her arm flopped down beside her, asleep, she rubbed it, enduring the uncomfortable sensation of pins and needles as the circulation returned. It was still dark. The horizon had just begun to lighten, turning a paler shade of dark blue, heralding the approach of dawn. From deeper in the yard, a metallic rattling sound rang out followed by the heavy sigh of a horse. She sat up, her heart pounding. For all of Azeroth that had sounded like a horse shaking its head, rattling its bridle. Had Logan really come back after all?

She bolted off the porch, still rubbing her tingling arm. The huge shadow of a draught horse coalesced against the brightening sky and behind it, a shapeless mass of items, cram packed together, towered above the wagon. She stared, disbelieving. He had really done it. He had gone to Stormwind and bought them all the things they needed. She looked again at the sky. He must be exhausted. He wouldnn't have slept for a full day. Guilt slammed into her, for all her awful, hateful thoughts. All the time she had been doubting him, he had been working, giving up his rest day for them, and for nothing in return. She had to thank him. Lifting the hem of her dress, she rushed around to the back of the wagon.

"So ya finally be awake," Unambi said as he lifted something out from the back of the wagon and handed it to her. It smelled of leather oil and soap. She held it up to the faint light, curious. A horse halter and lead. He went up to the horse and started stripping away its harness. She looked around, searching the shadows for Logan. Maybe he had gone to the outhouse. She stood on her toes, trying to see past Unambi.

"If ya be lookin' for dat boy," Unambi murmured, "ya jus' missed him. He be runnin' back ta his people before he be gettin' in trouble for bein' late."

"Oh," Idira answered, shame filling her once more, coupled with a deeper layer of regret. How long would she have to wait to thank him? A month? More? She wondered when he would next return on his patrol.

Unambi took the halter and lead from Idira and slid it over the horse's head, patting its nose, affectionate. "Dis be a fine horse he bought for us. Too bad we won' be keepin' it."

"Why not?" Idira asked, worrying he intended for them to eat it, like they had had to do with the ones in Moonbrook near the end.

Unambi sniffed and walked the horse toward the lean-to, where once, long ago, another horse had lived until Papa had killed it and made them eat it. The horse went into the stable, docile. It turned and whickered, waiting, patient, for its feed and water. Unambi lifted up the old rope, frayed with wear and age and dropped its loop onto the hook on the wall. The horse stood just inside the rope and pawed the hard-packed earth.

"We don' be havin' da grain ta be givin' dis one," he said as he patted its strong, muscled neck. "Even if dat boy brought some feed for it, dat won' last long. Nah, dis one deserves a better life den dis dry ol' place. So dat boy be comin' back ta sell it."

"Oh?" Idira perked up, heartened to know the horse wouldn't be eaten. "When will that be?"

"He be comin' back on his next free day." Unambi eyed her, his eyes glittering in the faint light of the new day. "Dat's fifteen days from now, so ya be havin' plenty o' time ta be thinkin' how ta thank dat boy." He went and hefted two bags of grain from the back of the wagon and threw them over his shoulder. "Now dis poor horse be needin' food an' water, an' den we be gettin' ta work. Dere be plenty for us ta do dis day, ya jus' wait an' see."

* * *

He hadn't exaggerated. It took most of the morning just to unload the wagon and carry everything into the house. More than once Idira wondered how Logan had managed it all on his own. As they unloaded the wagon, it became obvious he had thought things through, purchasing and loading the largest items first: the bed, a mattress (a luxurious feather one, not straw like Unambi had put on the list), two dressers, the table and wardrobe. Idira worked hard and without complaint, even as the heat from the sun poured down onto her from the cloudless, deep blue sky, and her skin glistened with perspiration. She fancied her labour might offset her guilt, just a little. It did help, but not as much as she'd hoped.

That afternoon and evening as they arranged and re-arranged their new things, and the house went from being an empty shell to a cosy home, Idira couldn't help but feel affection for the boy and his foresight, he'd even bought several colourful rugs and two sets of matching curtains, though neither Unambi or Idira had thought to put them on the list. She considered the incredible sacrifice he had made for them. Not only had he given up his time, but Unambi murmured the boy had risked his life carrying a fortune of gold on his back out of Westfall and into Stormwind.

She glanced for the hundredth time at the wooden chest containing all her new books, longing to go to it and turn the key in its lock, to discover what wonders awaited her, but she forced herself to wait. There would be time enough for that later. First she was going to learn to use the grinder he'd brought back. He had bought them coffee beans, packed in a large sack hessian sack with a fancy label stamped with black ink on the front. She cut the sack's ties open and breathed in the beans' warm exotic scent, like warm earth and woodsmoke and the sky after a storm. She put a small scoop of the precious beans into the grinder's hopper and turned the crank. The crushed grains came out, their aroma even stronger, sending up both sweet and bitter notes at the same time. Her mouth watered. She couldn't wait. She was going to make the best pot of coffee ever, and then, she was going to look at her books.

* * *

Over the next two weeks, Idira spent every free moment she had going through her books. Logan had managed to buy fifty-two books for her, three of them about Khadgar, though they didn't tell her much about him as a person; they only detailed his achievements in the many battles he had fought up until he left Azeroth, never to return. One of the books did have a full-page colour illustration of him standing tall and proud, his staff raised, crackling with magic as he wielded it against powerful humanoid creatures with green skin, hefting enormous double-bladed axes and clubs.

At first, she had no idea what the creatures were so she asked Unambi, but he said he didn't know either. Later, as she read through the book, she learned what they were and where they came from. _Orcs_ , more frequently referred to in the books as _The Horde,_ had reached Azeroth via a massive magical portal opened by dark magic from their home world, Draenor. As she read, she finally learned why VanCleef had to rebuild Stormwind. The orcs had nearly destroyed the city as they marched across the Eastern Kingdoms, leaving destruction in their wake. Idira had never known the reason why Stormwind had to be rebuilt, but now she understood.

These orcish invaders had been a terrible threat to Azeroth and from what she read, Khadgar had been the main reason for their defeat. The destruction of Stormwind might have happened seven years before Idira was born, but to learn that Khadgar had been there, fighting against the orcs, perhaps looking just like he did in the picture in the book, made her feel warm and tingly inside. He had been so close, just on the other side of the mountains.

But now he was gone. When the portal couldn't be kept closed, Khadgar had decided to take Azeroth's fight to their world. He must have won, because the portal had fallen silent. The books said no one knew what his life was like there, or even if he still lived since everyone who had travelled with him on that expedition had never returned.

Idira smiled to herself as she cleaned the fish for dinner. _She_ knew. Perhaps she might be the only person in Azeroth who knew Khadgar was still alive and living in that strange, sunken stone city. A ripple of pleasure shot through her, making her shiver despite the late afternoon's broiling heat.

She wished she could see him again, even as a shadow, just to be certain he was safe. In those rare precious minutes when Unambi went down to check the crab traps, she would close her eyes and try to see Khadgar, but nothing ever happened. Her theory seemed to be correct, they only transcended the impossible distance between them when they called to her Light at the same time. She positioned the last fish on the cutting board and slid her knife into its belly, reminding herself if her theory was true, she had been fortunate to have even seen him those two times. Still, she wished she could see him again, just one more time.

A tendril of hair slipped free from its pins and fell over her eyes. She rubbed the back of her hand against her forehead and pushed it away, her thoughts turning to her other books. She had only managed to browse through them so far, with so many things to do around the farm, she didn't have a lot of time to spare, but nothing she had read could explain her abilities or even how to begin to harness them. She knew Unambi had been captured because Arinna didn't know what Idira's magic was, but still, it was she who lived with it and knew it best. They might have missed something. She had to try.

With every new book she opened, she harboured the hope she would find something, anything, even a small reference she could latch onto, a trail she could follow, but there was nothing. The books talked about every other kind of magic in great detail, but not one of them even came close to hinting at what lived within her. Unambi had said nothing as she went through her books in the evenings, sitting on the rug with her back against the book chest, a dozen books piled up around her. She sensed he was giving her time to work out things in her own head. One day she would ask him what he knew, but first she needed to do things her way.

She sighed and set the fish into the pan for frying, keeping the heat low since she had nothing but the oil inside the fish in which to cook them. Among other things, Logan had brought a bag of sweet potatoes back from Stormwind, she stirred the ones she had peeled, tumbling up and down in the boiling water. She sighed, they would probably be done long before the fish. Cooking was harder than she'd expected it would be, everything seemed to be about timing, something she found herself not particularly good at.

Outside the kitchen window, clad in their new red-chequered curtains, she glimpsed Unambi watering their garden in the soft light of the lowering sun, singing quietly to himself, wearing a ridiculous floppy seagrass hat he had made to shade his eyes from the sun. His hat making abilities aside, she had to admit he had proven to be an adept gardener, preparing the soil beside the house with organic matter from the sea, and enriching it with broken shells, fish entrails, bones and crushed crab carapaces. Together they planted several rows of sweet potatoes as well as the okra, corn, leek, bean and tomato seeds Logan had brought back. Already little shoots were coming up out of the ground, bright green, their tiny leaves unfurling. She had never seen Unambi so content as he had become over the past days. She whispered a prayer, asking the Light to protect them. In her heart she knew one day it would end if she was destined to meet Khadgar in that floating city, but for now, she hoped their idyll would last as long as possible.

* * *

Logan came back, just as he promised, blushing and looking at his boots as he scuffed them in the dirt, saying it was nothing when Idira tried to thank him. He said he knew of someone who wanted to buy a horse and wagon, a farmer called Furlbrow, who lived near the bridge to Elwynn Forest. He told them he thought he could get all their money back, so they would have lost nothing. He left, promising to come back as soon as he was done.

He appeared on the horizon just before dinner time, whistling a jaunty tune, his dark hair sticking up in every direction and his boots raising a trail of dust behind him. Idira watched his approach from the rocking chair on the porch, shading her eyes against the light of the setting sun. He was a fine looking lad, even if his demeanour was awkward and a little immature. She tried to imagine what he would look like grown up. He would probably be handsome, like Benny. Strong too, judging by the size of him. She guessed he was between two and three years older than her, since blacksmith apprentices start at the age of fourteen and she had first seen him when she was approaching twelve.

She smiled, pleased, anticipating her chance to show her gratitude for all he had done. She had hit upon the perfect thing, an invitation to dinner, he couldn't blush and scuff his boots out of that one. All men loved to eat, of that much at least she was certain. When she had suggested her plan to Unambi, he had murmured his approval before adding his intention to surprise the lad by letting him keep the money from the sale in return for all he had done for them. With another set of gold candelabra stashed under the floorboards, he reckoned they could afford it.

Idira went into the house, tied on her apron and checked on the dinner simmering on the stove, a seafood stew with sweet potato and the last of the leeks Logan had brought from Stormwind. It smelled delicious. She ground several precious peppercorns into it and tasted it. Perfect. She hurried to set the table, finishing just as she heard Unambi greet Logan out in the yard. They came in, Logan glanced at Idira, then down at his feet, blushing right up his hairline. Idira decided to take charge.

"You'll stay for dinner?" she asked, wondering why he was always blushing like that. "I made seafood stew."

"Oh?" he looked up from under his thick fringe, taking in the table and the pot on the stove. "Um. Well I am a little hungry, I guess. I mean, if it's no bother, that is."

Idira smiled, pleased. "Of course not! I wasn't going to take no for an answer anyway."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really?" he asked, his voice breaking, coming out high, like a boy's. He turned an even deeper shade of red.

"Yes, really," Idira answered. "Go wash up, both of you. I'll serve up."

When the sun had gone down and the stars filled the sky, Logan left still thanking Unambi for letting him keep the money; an astonishing amount as it turned out. For Logan, it equalled a half-year's wages. At first he didn't want to take it, insisting they might need it, but Unambi made sure Logan couldn't refuse, saying it was a matter of troll honour.

"Well, if it's about honour, then," Logan had said, as he eyed the gold pieces laying on the table, still uncertain.

Unambi pushed the money across to him. "Ya be takin' it or I be havin' ta fight ya for disrespectin' Unambi's gift."

"Right. No problem," Logan said, hurrying to drop the coins into the pouch tied to his belt. "I can take the money, but I promise I will take care of it and not squander it. One day, Idira might need my help again. You never know."

"Ya neva' know," Unambi repeated, slow, his eyes gleaming with approval in the candlelight. He went to the door and opened it, indicating it was time for Logan to leave. "Wheneva' ya be passin' by on ya patrol," he said, soft, "ya always be welcome ta dis house. Always."

* * *

Hesitantly at first, then with more confidence, Idira began to believe her prayer to the Light might have been heard, her wish granted for a peaceful, quiet life. A year passed, the garden flourishing under Unambi's gentle care, supplying them with vegetables and staples. He decided to plant one of the smaller fields with wheat, his first harvest so bountiful, he didn't need to plant any wheat the second year. Logan brought them chickens, providing the farm with fresh eggs, though Idira refused to allow either Unambi or Logan to kill the chickens for their flesh. Margle visited often, his courage growing by increments until one day she turned to find him standing behind her as she worked in the kitchen, holding up a crab, shy in his new surroundings.

The days and nights blended together, warm, identical, unchanging. It rarely rained, but when it did, it poured, brought in by heavy clouds blown in from the sea, drenching the dusty earth and turning the air cool and humid for days.

Logan visited every time he passed by on patrol, carrying a small cache of supplies hidden in his backpack; honey, sugar, flour, coffee beans, things he knew they wouldn't have. As the years passed and he moved up in the ranks of the People's Militia, he no longer worked on patrol, his duties keeping him in Sentinel Hill or fighting Jac's men in the south and east. After his patrols stopped, no one else ever came by. Idira wondered if he used his station to ensure their continued protection. He still managed to visit, however, turning up on his horse at least once a month.

Besides the goods he brought from Sentinel Hill, he also carried news, just as precious. Soon after Idira reached her seventeenth year, she learned the People's Militia had broken Jac's stranglehold on the eastern part of Westfall, and had even begun to reclaim parts of Moonbrook, or, at least what was left of it after years of vandalism. Still, it was progress, Logan had said. Jac would soon fall, and after years of misery and oppression Westfall would belong to its people once more. They would rebuild.

The years sped past, comfortable and calm, Idira's peaceful, rustic routine broken only by Logan's visits. In what seemed the blink of an eye, she reached her twentieth year, her girlishness long gone, her breasts and hips straining at the seams of Myra's old dresses, worn thin with age and use. Logan went to Stormwind and came back with a thick bolt of cerulean blue linen, scissors and thread for her. He'd said it was a late birthday present as he handed it to her with a confident smile, his boyish awkwardness long gone, replaced by the easy assurance of a man full grown and experienced around women.

She'd smiled with delight as she touched the fabric, suspecting his gift meant he might be courting her, the way Benny used to do with Myra. Logan _was_ handsome. Very handsome, in fact. Neither had she failed to notice how his body rippled with solid muscle under his leather tunic. He had long since replaced his daggers with a massive two-handed sword; its scabbard strapped to his back, the sword's enormous goatskin-wrapped hilt rising high above his left shoulder.

On his last visit, when he saw the woodpile was empty and Idira needed to light the stove for dinner, he had offered to fill up the pile for her. He had shed his leather tunic and shirt and worked bare-chested in the broiling heat, his tanned and taut body making Idira experience feelings she hadn't felt before. Shy, she went inside and watched him from the sitting room window, half-hidden by the curtain, her fingers drifting to her breasts, imagining what it would be like to press her naked body against his. He looked up and caught her watching him, her hands on her breasts. He smiled, cocky, confidence oozing from him and carried on with his work. Cringing with embarrassment, she fled into the kitchen to work on her dress.

The blue linen was very good quality. It felt expensive. Despite Logan's attention and obvious interest in her, she still thought of Khadgar, though under Logan's influence and innuendoes, her thoughts had become much less innocent than they used to be.

Lately she had begun to imagine Khadgar without his tunic, holding her against him, his mouth on hers. Alone in her bed, she would replay the time she had seen Benny and Myra together in the hidden room in the cellar, and imagine doing those things with Khadgar, her cheeks burning from her naughty, shameful thoughts.

Though she longed for it, she never so much as even dreamed of Khadgar again. She had begun to wonder if her Light and her connection to Khadgar had been an artefact of her childhood, something she lost as she grew into womanhood. When she asked, Unambi said he didn't think so, that it only worked when it needed to protect her, and since she was safe, there was nothing for it to do until it would be needed for its real purpose, whatever that might be.

The night she had seen Logan chop the wood, she lay in her bed, wondering if Unambi was wrong and perhaps she was meant to be with Logan. She bit her lip as her hands drifted over her full breasts, her fingertips caressing her nipples, thinking of Logan when he caught her looking at him as he chopped the wood, imagining his strong hands on her breasts instead of hers. She closed her eyes and imagined him kissing her. She snatched her hands away, suddenly uncomfortable. No. It felt wrong, like she had just imagined kissing a brother. She pushed her thoughts of Logan aside, thinking instead of Khadgar, her hands creeping back to her breasts, touching her nipples, imagining his hands there. She sighed as her nipples hardened. She opened her eyes and stared at the rafters. It could only be him. She turned onto her side, hoping with all her heart one day she would find him on that balcony like her dreams foretold. If not, it seemed she was destined to lead a lonely, loveless life.

* * *

The summer Idira turned twenty-two, Logan came to the house with news. He paced back and forth in the kitchen, his arms crossed over his chest, his leather armour creaking in the warm, dry air. He turned to look at her, his shoulder-length dark hair tied back in a leather thong. A recent scar across his cheek made him look older than his twenty-five years. He hadn't shaved, but his stubble suited him. He had tried to kiss her once, the first day he had seen her in her new dress, made from the material he had bought for her. Despite her misgivings, curiosity overwhelmed Idira, so she let him. Their lips had barely touched before he had pulled back, abrupt, and stared at her, taken aback, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth. _It's like kissing my sister,_ he'd shuddered. Idira nodded, fighting the urge to gag. It had felt just as wrong to her too. From then on, the innuendoes stopped, and he treated her as a brother would, as fiercely protective of her as Unambi.

But right now Logan was furious. It seemed not only had Idira and Unambi survived the champions' attack on VanCleef's ship, but VanCleef's daughter Vanessa had also survived and had remained hidden in plain sight at the Saldean's farm; the child they had taken in and named Hope had grown into a young woman who pretended to be an upstanding member of Westfall's community. He eyed Idira, suspicious, distant.

"In all these years, why didn't you ever tell me?" he asked, anger edging his words, making them sharp.

Idira rubbed her palms up and down against her hips, nervous, rucking up the smooth material of her dress. She had never seen Logan like this before. He frightened her a little.

"You would have killed her," she answered, quiet. "She ran away the night we arrived. I thought she just wanted to put everything behind her, have a normal family after all she had been through. How could I have expected she would rise up like this? She was just a little girl!"

"Indeed," Logan grated out the words, "except that VanCleef's blood courses through her veins." He slammed his fist into his hand. "Just when we were starting to reclaim Westfall _this_ had to happen. Until today I had no idea who our new aggressor was, despite all my investigations. We only knew someone was gathering forces to their cause, while killing my spies in Moonbrook. But now I know the truth!" He glared at Idira, hostile. "I discovered it quite by accident while I rode here, to see you! One of our patrolmen writhing in his death throes, lived long enough to say she told him her name as she cut him, saying 'Hope' is a lie." He moved closer, menacing. "But here is the bitterest irony of all, that conniving, vengeful creature will take anyone into her ranks, even the enemies of her father." Logan nodded, terse as Idira raised her hands to her mouth. "Before she killed all my infiltrators, I had been getting reports Jac was losing control, his men in-fighting and jockeying for power, the entire structure of his organisation fragmenting. We were using it to our advantage, but now _she_ has come along, determined to gather Jac's disaffected to _her_ cause, the little bitch wants Moonbrook for herself. Now once more, our enemies are organising, and under someone we could have easily contained long ago."

He glared at her, quivering with rage. When she said nothing he scoffed and turned away. Anger emanated from him, hitting Idira like a wall. He clenched and unclenched his fists, his shoulders rising and falling as he huffed, agitated.

Idira went to him and touched his arm. "Perhaps I could talk to her, explain to her she is wrong. She is still young, she only turned sixteen last month."

Logan scoffed. " _Talk_ to her? It's far too late for that. Do you know how many have fallen to her blades?" He turned and glared at her, uttering the number as though it were Idira's fault. "Twelve. Friends, all of them. You should have told me."

"Yes," Idira murmured, trying to keep up, struggling to reframe the image of the little girl who played with wooden animals and listened to fairy tales into a cold-blooded, vengeful killer, willing to work with the very men who had bombed their home and drove them into the mines. "I see that now, if I could turn back time, knowing what I now know I would do things differently. But what good does it do to—"

She stopped. The glass panes of the windows had begun to rattle. From far out in the sea, a deep rumbling rose up, a low, ominous reverberation unlike anything she had ever heard before. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted, fuelled by a sudden deep sensation of dread. On their hooks against the wall, the copper pots and pans trembled, their clatter growing with each passing moment. The cupboards jiggled free of their latches, their doors falling open one by one, the plates and bowls stacked inside juddering to the cupboards' edges, tumbling to the floor. Jagged crockery shards slammed into the walls and furniture, and smacked against Idira's skirts.

Logan grabbed her hand and dragged her to the door, dust from the rafters tumbling over them. Idira stumbled after him, choking, trying not to trip on the hem of her dress as he bolted down the porch steps and around the side of the house toward the cliffs. He staggered to a halt, panting.

"What in the Light?" Logan gasped.

Idira gaped, incredulous, as she stumbled to find her feet. Logan caught her, steadying her. It was like something from one of her fairytale books. Only this wasn't an illustration. It was a real monster, living and breathing, coming straight at them.

At least five times the size of VanCleef's ship, a massive molten dragon flew low over the ocean, its enormous red and black wings beating a powerful, deep cadence. Waves rushed away from their heated blasts, building in force, rising up as high as the buildings in the square of Moonbrook, slamming into Stormwind's battleships trapped in the creature's wake, the waves battered them, tearing the juggernauts apart as though they were no more than toys.

As the creature drew closer, Idira stared, horrified. This was no typical dragon, nothing at all like the ones from her books. Its body had been covered by massive black metal plates, sheathing it like a suit of armour, but its armour had been bolted right onto his flesh with gigantic rivets. Molten lava seeped out from in between the cracks in great viscous drops, wherever they landed, the seawater evaporated into explosive geysers of steam. Clouds of thick ash spiralled out from the dragon's wake, spreading out across the hissing, burning sea. The dragon lifted its head and opened its mouth, its lower jaw crafted from a massive piece of metal, jagged and vicious looking. A vast swathe of molten fire spewed forth from it, incinerating the ships caught in its path. As it neared, the ground's shaking intensified, quivering from the deep reverberation of the dragon's wings. The cliffs cracked open and huge chunks of the hard-packed, dry earth loosened and tumbled away, carrying boulders and bushes with it, smashing them against the rocks on the beach far below.

She felt Logan tighten his grip on her hand, pulling her against him, protective. Down on the beach, a blur of movement caught Idira's eye. Margle ran, his little legs pumping, racing, desperate to reach the cliff path, keeping one eye on the incoming tsunami, its wall of water churning with shattered and burning pieces of ships, the water thundering so loud, it drowned out even the deep pounding of the dragon's wings.

Idira waved at the murloc, frantic, urging him on even as he reached the bottom of the cliff path and rushed up the hill, zigzagging around the falling rocks and earth. Idira bit her lip, begging the Light to protect him. She went to move closer to the path, to look down and watch his ascent, but Logan yanked her back, his expression fierce. He shook his head.

"It's too dangerous!" he yelled.

Her heart pounding, she turned her attention back to the sea, as the tide fell back, sucked far into the sea, exposing the hidden depths of the sea's floor. She eyed the climbing wall of water and the cliffs, gauging their heights. It was going to be close. Margle bolted up over the crest of the cliff, and ran behind Idira's skirt, clinging to it, gibbering in terror.

"Ya be gettin' up on da roof!" Unambi bellowed as he came barrelling towards them from the wheat field, his grass hat skittering behind him, buffeted by the wind, caught by its strap around his neck. He rushed over and scooped up the quaking murloc and ran to the house, with one quick movement he lobbed the poor thing up onto the roof's tiles. Idira followed after, tugging on Logan's hand. He stood stock still, transfixed by the dragon flying over the waters, burning Stormwind's ships, desperately firing their cannons at it.

"Logan!" Idira yelled, terrified. The wall of water had met the tide and now a solid barrier rushed towards them, gathering speed, furious.

He started and turned. Still holding onto Idira's hand he bolted toward the house where Unambi waited, ready to hoist them up onto the roof. Idira ran as fast as she could, but her skirts kept tangling in her legs. Logan's arm went round her waist and she flew up into the air, landing on her stomach with a rough thump against his leather clad shoulder. She hung upside down, his arm gripping the backs of her thighs so hard it hurt. She lifted her head. The water had reached the crab pots. They exploded, smashed by the water's onslaught.

"Hurry!" she screamed, pounding on his back. Unambi's strong hands took hold of her, and she lifted even higher. He spun her round. The roof loomed before her. She reached out and grabbed hold of the eaves, scrambling up onto the roof's peak, Logan and Unambi right behind her.

"What about Blackie?" Idira cried, searching the yard for her cat, frantic. "And the chickens?"

"Dere be no time for dat," Unambi hollered, the wind gaining force, tearing his hat free, sending it sailing up into the sky.

They clustered together, clinging to each other, watching, horrified, as the roaring, churning wall of water rushed towards them. It slammed against the cliffs, with a deep boom that shook the house. A spray of freezing water exploded over the cliff wall, drenching them and splattering the roof with seaweed dredged up from the deepest parts of the sea. Idira clutched onto Unambi and Logan, as the sea surged against the top of the cliffs, frothing, white, angry; ships' masts and shattered hulls roiling and turning in the violent waters.

The waves rose, inexorable, breaking over the crest of the cliff, rushing, hungry toward the house, knee deep, the bodies of dead fish, crabs and octopi tumbling, helpless in their watery grave. The sea crashed around the house's stone foundation, submerging the vegetable garden beside the kitchen. It swept under the porch, smashing into the steps, the force of it carrying them away into the yard. It raced, hungry, toward the chicken pen, the birds scuttled to the opposite side, huddling up tight against the wire, pushing their feathered breasts against it, trying to escape. Idira pressed her fists to her mouth, tears burning her eyes. _Please. Not the chickens_. She searched for her Light, seeking to protect them. Nothing happened. She tried harder. Still, nothing. She whimpered. Logan's arm came around her shoulders, squeezing her, reassuring her. He pressed his lips against her hair, distracted, kissing her head as though she were a child, hushing her.

Halfway across the chicken pen, the waters slowed, its depth decreasing even as it continued to creep towards the chickens, menacing, oblivious to their desperate, terrified cries. The wave stalled, the edge of the waters seethed but moved no further.

Stillness came, a dense bubble of silence settled over the farm, so still Idira's ragged breathing sounded like a roar in her ears. Far to the east, the acacia trees dotting the horizon leaned sideways, caught in a sudden blast of wind. It rushed towards the farm across the plains, flattening the wild grasses, and driving the tumbleweed, reckless over the land toward the cliffs. The wind slammed into them, cold and humid, heavy with the rich, briny stink of the deep ocean. It swept back over the cliffs and across the sea, returning to wherever it had come from. The waters followed it, sliding backwards, gaining speed as it scythed back to the cliffs, streaming, frantic, back to the sea, sucked by the force of the ocean's gravity struggling to return to its equilibrium. It poured over the edge of the cliff into the retreating sea, littering the mud-swept yard with dead and dying sea creatures.

Out over the sea, having no more boats left to destroy, the dragon roared and changed course, its body tilting at an improbable angle. It lowered its head, opening its mouth wide, preparing to exhale.

"It's heading straight for Stormwind," Logan said, rising to his feet, pale. "They can't fight that. No one can."

The metal-encased molten dragon disappeared behind the mountain range separating the coast of Westfall from Stormwind's harbour. In the distance the faint sound of horns blared, what sounded like hundreds of them. The sound of explosions and screams carried to them on the heated air, driven across the mountain range by the power of the dragon's great wings, the cries of the dying reaching all the way to their farm in Westfall. Above the mountains, the sky darkened, blackening with ash, soon even the light of the sun was lost as the city's cinders spread out, covering the sky's canopy, enclosing the world in gloom. The underside of it glowed orange, reflecting the flames of Stormwind as it burned. The dragon emerged from the other side of the mountains, gliding over Elwynn Forest. It flew on, veering to the north, incinerating everything in its path.

Logan sank down, his jaw slack, disbelieving. "Stormwind is gone. It's the end of the world," he whispered, stricken.

Idira looked down at Logan, who sat pale and trembling, staring out at the burning wreckage of the ships, strewn across the sea. From across the water came the wails of the survivors, mourning their dead. What about Nin, Arinna and Bishop Mattias? How could they have survived that? She pressed her hands to her head, overwhelmed. Was _everyone_ she loved meant to die? It was too much, too sudden, too vast, too strange. She looked down at the chickens. They still huddled together, frightened, pressed up against the fence, at least they had survived. She looked at the broken pieces of the porch's steps laying in the middle of the yard. It had gone far. She blinked. A sodden patch of black fur lay tangled within the splintered wood. _No_. Her heart started to pound. _No. Please. No._

"Blackie!" she cried, scrabbling to get down from the roof, her eyes never leaving the cat, hoping against hope Blackie still somehow lived.

Ignoring Unambi's pleas for her to wait, to let him help her get down, she tumbled down from the roof, and landed spread-eagled, face first in the mud. She leapt to her feet and ran to the shattered steps, tripping over shipwreck debris, dead fish and crabs. Within the tangled mess of wood, Blackie lay silent and still, her body small and limp. Idira could hear Unambi coming, but she couldn't wait. Her heart in her throat, she tried to lift the sodden wood, but it was too heavy, and all she managed to do was tear her hands on its sharp, jagged edges. Unambi reached out and pulled the pieces away, careful not to hurt the cat. Blackie slid free, boneless, down onto the mud.

Her hands shaking, Idira picked up her cat and cradled its lifeless body on her lap. Seawater leaked out of Blackie's open mouth, her wide-open eyes, filming over in the drying air, betrayed her final moments of pain and terror.

Idira choked, tears burning her eyes. "She hid under the porch, the place she always went whenever she was scared." She lifted the muddy, soaking cat up against her chest, cuddling her against her filthy dress. "Why didn't I think of it? Why didn't I go to you?"

Logan and Margle arrived; the murloc reached out to touch the cat, tentative, it gurgled, sad. She felt Logan's hand on her shoulder. He squeezed it, murmuring how sorry he was for her. She shook him off and shifted, putting her back to him, clutching the dead cat to her chest.

"Just leave me alone, please," she whispered, her throat aching.

One by one they left, making desultory attempts to clear the yard. Idira looked down at her lost companion, grief and guilt overwhelming her. She cradled her in her arms, like a baby, stroking her face and kissing her nose.

"I'm so sorry," she sobbed, as her tears spilled onto the cat's fur. "I loved you, so much."

After all their years together, just like that, Blackie was gone. She lay limp in her arms, the reflection of the burning skies the only light left remaining in her companion's silent, empty eyes.


	13. Chapter 12

**CHAPTER 12**

* * *

That night, as Idira stood over Blackie's grave under a smoke blackened sky, she sensed someone watching her. She looked up, wary. Clad in black leather, a female slid from the shadows of the acacia trees and paced towards her, as graceful like a cat. Idira took a step back, wary. She had nothing with which protect herself, save her Light, which she wasn't sure she could count on. She half-turned to glance at the house, where she could see Unambi, bathed in candlelight, moving around, cleaning up the mess of broken crockery. She need only scream—

"I won't hurt you," a feminine voice murmured, right behind her. "I just wanted to make certain you were safe, after _that_."

Her heart in her throat, Idira turned and met the dark eyes of the hooded young woman, lit by the soft light from the house.

"Vanessa?" she asked, uncertain, eyeing the set of large, vicious looking daggers the other woman wore on her belt.

The young woman nodded, terse. She pulled back her hood, just a little, so the deeper shadows left her face.

Idira stepped back, astonished, her hand going to her mouth. For a heartbeat her heart stopped, believing she was seeing the ghost of Myra when they still lived on the farm, for in Vanessa's face Idira glimpsed the same expressive eyes, and the familiar contours of her sister's cheekbones, jaw and brow.

Vanessa held up her hand, as though asking Idira to wait. Idira nodded, though her heart continued to pound, her mind caught in the echoes of the past as Vanessa glanced from side to side before cautiously pulling her hood back. Her niece's short, dark hair, mottled with sweat at the temples transformed her from memory into reality. Idira lowered her hand. This was no ghost, but the grown-up daughter of VanCleef and Myra, bearing Myra's features and VanCleef's colouring.

Vanessa glanced down at the little mound of muddy soil, bearing a stone at its head with Blackie's name etched across it. Her face tightened.

"Today?"

Idira nodded, her heart clenching in a fresh arc of pain.

"I'm sorry. She was a nice cat."

Idira didn't say anything. She didn't know what to say. Logan's words tumbled through her mind, jagged and angry. _Aggressor. Murderer. Bitch._ She rubbed her hands against her hips, nervous and conflicted. Vanessa was her blood. Even if she was doing wrong, she was still her niece, the child of her sister.

"I know about you and Logan," Vanessa said, low, as she lifted her hood back over her head. "I'm guessing after I caught him discovering my latest strike he told you everything."

Idira couldn't muster the energy to ask how her niece knew so much about her situation. Instead she looked over the farm yard, cleared of its debris and nearly dry from the heated air washing over Westfall from the burning city. There was only one question she wanted answered, so she asked it.

"A patrolman? Why?"

Vanessa shrugged. "He saw me. I had to. I didn't enjoy it. Of course my efforts were wasted now that Logan knows. I just wish what happened before I met the patrolman hadn't happened . . . " She prodded at a loose stone with the toe of her boot. "Well, it is what it is. It's done now."

Despite the heat in the air, Idira shivered. Vanessa sounded just like her father. Cold. Calculated. Dangerous. Idira wasn't going to ask Vanessa what she was referring to that had happened before the patrolman. She didn't want to know.

"You won't . . ." Idira couldn't finish the question. She shook her head. The thought of losing Logan, after losing so many others was unbearable.

Vanessa smirked. "Don't worry. I let him go, for your sake. But then," she cast her eyes towards the red-flamed glow in the skies above Stormwind, "I have a feeling I might be the least of his problems for the next little while, at least." She slipped back into the shadows. "You always took good care of me, Idira. I have never forgotten that. I am glad you are safe. When Westfall is mine, I will make sure you will be well taken care of, you have my word."

A sudden whisper of air washed over Idira. She pivoted, following it just in time to see a shadow slip past the acacia trees and merge with the night. The light from the moon and stars, swallowed by thick layers of ash meant Idira could only see as far as the house's candlelight. Beyond, the night lay thick, ominous and claustrophobic; a wall of impenetrable black. She sighed again, her heart heavy. For a little while longer, she lingered, gazing at the little gravestone marking Blackie's resting place before going to the house, determined to tell no one of the one who had come to visit from the depths of the night.

* * *

Vanessa had been right about one thing, in the aftermath of the dragon's attack, Logan's problems increased exponentially. He sat in the kitchen nursing a mug of fresh brewed coffee, turning it from side to side in his big hands, complaining about the sudden influx of Stormwind refugees flooding into Westfall, looking for aid and shelter in Sentinel Hill, its fortifications still under construction and supply lines barely enough for those fighting to free Westfall from its oppressors. To top it off, the sudden return of the People's Militia's once-leader, Gryan Stoutmantle, now a Marshal allied with Stormwind, meant Westfall no longer belonged to the people but answered to the Alliance, whose mandates took precedence over the activities of the People's Militia, renamed on Stoutmantle's return to The Westfall Brigade. After more than one run-in with the long absent leader, Logan found his wings clipped so hard, he said they felt like they bled.

"And the worst of it," he said, his tone veering dangerously close to a whine, "is no one believes my report that Hope Saldean is VanCleef's daughter. They simply can't accept that such a nice girl, whom they've watched grow up could be behind the killing of our men and the agitator of the situation in Moonbrook. It's incredible, she walks into the town looking the picture of innocence in her plain homespun dress and apron, going to the market to sell her vegetables. It's sickening. I tried arresting her once, and do you know what happened?"

Sitting across from him at the table, Idira set a peeled sweet potato into a pot of water and picked up a new unpeeled one from the bowl, keeping her eyes on the knife's blade cutting into the skin of the tuber. She shook her head, even though she already knew the answer, hoping her expression wasn't revealing anything about having seen her niece a fortnight before.

" _I_ was put on probation!" Logan tilted the cup of coffee back, and gulped its contents down, finishing the last dregs with noisy slurps. He slammed the cup back onto the table so hard the pot containing the peeled sweet potatoes rattled against the board. "Can you believe it? Stoutmantle just _rolls_ in from the Light knows where after leaving us to fend for ourselves for the last nine years, expecting to take over where he left off without so much as a by-your-leave. _He_ decides everything now, and all he's interested in are two things: keeping Stormwind's transients out of Sentinel Hill and trying to find out who killed the Saldeans and Blanchy the same day the dragon arrived." He scoffed. "He's even brought SI:7 investigators from Stormwind to get to the bottom of it, like _that's_ the most important thing the People's Militia—I mean _The Westfall Brigade_ —should be worrying about." He leaned back in his chair, his legs sprawled out, rebellious. He huffed and crossed his arms over his chest and turned to look out the open front door, his eyes narrowed, hostile, looking for stray travellers.

Idira kept working, she had heard him rant about this subject often enough over the last week. She pulled the last of the peel away from the potato, feeling a tiny shimmer of pleasure, she had managed to take the peel off in one long piece. It was a game she liked to play with herself, although she lost more often than she won.

Logan got up to pour himself another coffee. He sat down again and sipped it, moody. She noticed he hadn't asked if she would like her coffee mug, sitting empty beside her, to be refilled. She sighed and leaned back to stretch the kinks out of her shoulders, thinking for the hundredth time how glad she was she hadn't ended up with him; once he got in a sulk, there was no shifting him, and at times he was insufferable.

Though it was disloyal, a tiny part of her could understand why he had been sent on his way. Logan might be strong, but he wasn't particularly clever when it came to dealing with those in power. When he'd been slapped with his probation he'd had to give back his horse, so he turned up on foot, carrying a sack with all his worldly possessions over his shoulder, saying he'd decided to stay at the farm, declaring he might not ever go back, calling his comrades-in-arms arse-lickers and ingrates.

She had to admit, despite his non-stop railing, it _was_ useful to have him around. He was doing an excellent job using his pent-up anger scouring the farmland for the occasional wanderer, leaving them in no doubt which way they should be headed: towards Sentinel Hill. Over the last days, he'd kept them safe without Unambi ever having to be involved, or any of their precious supplies, greatly depleted since the garden and wheat field were destroyed, from being stolen.

"Gives that know-it-all Stoutmantle something to do," he would mutter each time he sent someone away, his features ugly and twisted by bitterness.

Idira got up and refilled her coffee mug, taking her time, enjoying the sudden moment of quiet as she cradled the mug's warmth against her hands and inhaled the coffee's bitter, earthy scent.

Logan snapped out of his thoughts and glanced at her. "What's for dinner tonight? I'm starving."

"Eggs, fried potatoes and fish," Idira answered as she attempted to sip her coffee. It was still a little too hot. She glanced at the fish waiting to be gutted. "You'll get your dinner quicker if you give me a hand."

He looked at the pile of fresh fish, caught earlier by Unambi. "You want those gutted and filleted or just gutted?"

"Filleted please," Idira murmured over her cup. "I'm going to make a hash."

"Fine," he got up, oozing resentment. Soon though, the mood in the kitchen lightened, as the work distracted him, soothing him. Idira smiled as she carried on with the potato peeling. She should have thought of this days ago. From now on, she would make sure he had plenty of little jobs to do in between his tours around the farm. Sitting and stewing was only making everyone unhappy, even Unambi had started keeping his distance from them, working from dawn to dusk restoring the garden or down at the beach, making new crab pots. Even Margle didn't show up as frequently anymore, sensing Logan's antagonism. The poor murloc had lost everything, so one of the first things Unambi did was help to build him a new home, raised up on stilts, using salvaged pieces of wood from the shipwrecks.

"I've been thinking of joining the Stormwind military," Logan said, apropos of nothing.

Idira started, her knife slipping and severing the length of peel. She bit her lip, annoyed. She had almost made it through again, with one long peel. She turned and glanced up at him, finding him already watching her.

"Oh?" she asked, wondering if he really meant it, or if he was just trying to goad her, like he was wont lately.

He didn't say anything, but Idira sensed his disappointment. He had wanted a reaction, after all. He shifted his weight, exposing the board behind him. The fish lay filleted in three glistening piles. She lifted a brow, impressed. He had done a good job. He dipped his hands into the wash bowl on the table, and reached out to take the linen towel from the hook on the wall.

"You want me to start frying these?" he asked as he dried his hands.

Idira nodded. "Yes, low heat though."

He pulled the copper frying pan down from its hook and set the fish into it with the fish slice, deft. "Are you going to say anything more than 'oh'?" he asked, quiet.

Idira hesitated, he sounded serious this time. So this wasn't just another one of his attempts to ease his anger by starting a quarrel. The quiet pop of the fish beginning to fry filled the quiet air.

"I won't go if you'd rather I didn't," he said as he poked the fish, making sure the fillets weren't sticking to the pan.

"Is this because of the changes at Sentinel Hill, or is it because you . . ."

He turned and eyed her. "Because I what?"

Idira blushed and turned back to her peeling, she would have to hurry if she wanted everything done on time.

"Because you want to meet someone," she blurted out, peeling her potato with jerky movements, cutting away far too much flesh. She tried to slow down, there was no point in being wasteful.

He didn't say anything. Embarrassed, she rushed on to fill the space where he had left her hanging, unable to stop the words from tumbling from her lips.

"I mean, I know the pickings are slim in Westfall," she said, rushing ahead without thinking. "Because you and me—well we both know that's not going to happen after that one time—so I understand if that's what you want to do. I mean, I really do, you have to live, after all."

She peeked up from under her lashes, trying to gauge his reaction. He'd turned back to the fish and stood bent over the pan, busy with the fish slice, shifting the pieces around far more than they needed. She was glad she'd planned to make a hash, the way he was going at the fish, it'd be in pieces by the time he was done anyway.

"Well," he finally said, "I just thought that maybe there's no future for me here since Stoutmantle and his crew don't want to listen to people who have been here for years, who know what's what. Not much point in going back if I have to take orders from people like that. Besides I heard the pay in Stormwind is triple what The Westfall Brigade is paying." His shoulders lifted and fell, the fish slice moved a little faster. "That's all, really," he hesitated for several moments, then continued, "I mean I guess if I met someone, then I'd see, but I honestly haven't really thought about it. Military life, you know? Not much room for a wife and children when you're out saving the world."

"Is that what you want to do? Save the world?" Idira asked, quiet.

He spun around, irritable again, holding up the fish slice, sticky with pieces of fish meat and greasy with oil. "What else is there for me to do?" he erupted, "I mean, if I can't have you and I can't make a difference anymore in Westfall—" He shook his head, and jabbed the fish slice towards the window facing the mountains, where behind its heights the broken city of Stormwind lay. "What's the point of anything anyway with that insane dragon flying around destroying the world? I just want to make sense of things. Do something that matters, you know, for once."

Idira nodded. She understood. How she wished she could make sense of things too, do something that mattered, instead of just waiting for the next thing to happen to her. She went to him, pulled the fish slice out of his hand and set it aside, her fingers tracing the length of its handle.

"I think you are making the right decision," she said, soft. "I will miss you of course, but perhaps it is for the best. It truly does seem as though there is nothing left for you in Westfall, and look at you," she smiled as she glanced up at him, trying to lighten the mood, "you would cut a fine figure in a suit of armour. A proper hero."

He smiled a little at her flattery, the lines of tension etched into his face over the past weeks easing, granting a rare glimpse of his handsome features, hidden for far too long behind a mask of anger. "Really? You don't mind if I go?"

Idira shook her head, thinking of the floating city, and of Khadgar. One step closer. Even though it had hurt Logan, she had become canny enough about her life to know his shunning by The Westfall Brigade meant more than what it seemed. Azeroth was pushing him on, just like a piece on a game board, for what purpose she couldn't guess, but it wasn't going to be used here in Westfall with its growing population of transients and new Alliance-allied regime. No, Logan was meant for something greater, she could sense it. He had come when she needed him, and now he was leaving when she wouldn't anymore. Soon, she suspected she would leave Westfall, too. It would be wrong to hold him back until then for her own selfish reasons. She suspected if she needed another protector, her Light would provide it.

"I don't," she said, when he cleared his throat, reminding her he was still waiting for her answer, "although I think Unambi would like it if you stayed one more week until he finishes planting the wheat field."

He nodded, and smiled, pleased. "No problem. I can do that." His stomach growled, loud. He picked up the fish slice and checked the fish, glistening, white and perfectly done. "The fish is ready," he announced, "when can we eat?"

Idira stood up on her toes and kissed him on his cheek, her heart filled with affection though her thoughts were tinged with sadness and nostalgia; another friend and ally, just like Nin, Arinna, Lanira, Kip and Benny would shortly be gone. "Soon," she said as she went back to her seat and finished peeling the last potato. She handed him the pot to put on the stove to boil, and picked up the basket to collect the eggs. "Very soon."

Once in the chicken pen, loneliness engulfed her. When she was sure he wasn't looking, she slipped into the coop and cried.

* * *

But he didn't leave after a week. Instead, five months of productive, labour-filled days slid by before Logan finally decided things at the farm were in good enough shape for him to admit there wasn't any more reason for him to stay. It seemed to Idira that once he knew he could leave his disappointments in Westfall behind, he relaxed, his agitation and resentment dissipating and his easygoing nature returning.

Over the months, he had hunted out big jobs that needed doing, poking around the farm, looking for problems and bringing them up over dinner, suggesting he help with them before leaving, oblivious to the knowing looks Unambi shot Idira over his mug of coffee.

With the abundance of shipwrecked wood washed up along the beach, he was able to build a dock so they could put their crab pots out much further into the sea. Then he set his mind to rebuilding the chicken coop. He then declared the kitchen garden wasn't enough for their needs, so he spent a month creating a beautiful garden in the front yard by building a dozen raised beds made from ship timber prepped with fertilised soil. Already the planted boxes had begun to burst to life, filled with new green things, unfurling their nascent leaves to the sun. Idira savoured the sight, anticipating how beautiful the farm would look once all the beds filled out; an oasis of green in a world of desiccated browns and yellows.

Not satisfied with his work, Logan built a little stone enclosure around Blackie's grave and together with Unambi they transplanted wild catnip Logan had found growing north of the farm near the river boundary to Elwynn Forest. Now a riot of purple flowers waved in the breeze, attracting butterflies and fat bees, the sight warming Idira's heart.

As she sat on the rocking chair on the porch, a book on her lap and the setting rays of the sun sliding over her shoulders, Idira realised they hadn't seen a single transient for at least a month, not even while out at the wheat field, a ten minutes' walk distant. Peace, of a sort it seemed, had finally returned to Westfall. Although she never said anything, a part of her thought perhaps this new Marshal of Westfall might be more than capable of his job. She hoped Vanessa had seen sense and given up her game now that someone with real power and clout had arrived, bringing with him with all the might of Stormwind.

Within the house, Idira could hear Logan and Unambi conversing as they played cards, talking about rotating the wheat fields to spare the soil, and Logan's planned departure first thing in the morning.

She smiled, completely at ease. Life felt good again. The hard edges of the terrible memory of what had happened when the dragon came had finally begun to fade, her pain from the loss of her cat joining the hidden place in her heart where all her other hurts lived, silent, and still, buried but never forgotten. She glanced at Blackie's little plot, overflowing with spreading catnip, and busy with bees, still gathering nectar even as the sun began to set. Blackie would have loved that. She hoped she was safe and happy now, out there somewhere with the Light.

She turned back to her book and lifted it up with a sigh. Realising she had lost her page, she leafed through the book, lazy. Over the top of her book, movement caught her eye. A gleam, flashing every now and again in the lowering light. She stood up, squinting, trying to focus. The gleam merged into a horse. She backed up, sidling to the door. A soldier, headed straight for the house.

"Logan?" Idira called out, as she edged to the door, hoping whomever it was hadn't seen her yet. She slid inside.

"Someone's coming, " she breathed.

Logan got up and reached for his sword. "More transients?" he asked. "I thought the influx was finally over. I guess I'll have to stick around a little while longer, after all." He smiled, cocky. "No problem."

"It's a soldier," Idira murmured, feeling her heart begin to pound. Something terrible was going to happen, she could feel it. "He's wearing armour and riding a horse."

Logan paled. Already Unambi was rolling back the rug in the bedroom and opening the concealed trap door, cleverly hidden within the seams of the planking. He lowered himself into the cramped space, usually used for storage and held up his hand to Idira, who hurried to clear away the evidence of there being someone else at the table. She sat on the edge of the opening and slipped down onto the dusty ground under the house, watching Logan through the cobwebs as he lowered the door over them, filled with dread.

"Don't worry," he said, though he looked uneasy, "It's going to be fine. We planned for this remember? _'I live here alone. Found the place abandoned after the dragon attack, blah blah blah.'_ I got this. No problem. They won't find you. I won't let them."

Idira nodded, listening as Logan kicked the rug back into place and his boots moved across the floorboards out onto the porch.

"Hello!" he called out.

A muffled reply. His tread went down the steps, and across the yard. She could hear talking, but the words were too low and indistinct. She looked at Unambi, he sat, completely still, listening, his eyes narrowed into slits.

Several minutes passed. Unambi shook his head.

"Ah. No," he said, quiet. He glanced at Idira and shook his head again, pity in his eyes. Idira couldn't bear it, she clung to his arm, pulling on it, as she crouched beside him in the shadows, imploring him. _Please. Tell me._

But Unambi lifted a finger to his lips, so he could continue to listen. She slumped back, defeated, and leaned against one of the support beams, cobwebs and dust trailing after her in her wake, sticking to her hair and dress. The sound of boots came up the porch steps and crossed the house. Only one person. She looked at Unambi, hopeful. _Is it alright?_

He nodded. The rug rolled back and slivers of candlelight slipped between the floor boards, streaming down onto them, like sunbeams in a cave. The trap door opened with barely a creak, proof Unambi had been keeping it well oiled.

Logan knelt and thrust his hand down into dusty space, making the motes caught in the light spiral away, swirling in the disrupted air. Idira grabbed onto him, holding onto the edge of the opening as he hoisted her back up into the house. Unambi clambered up after her, brushing at the cobwebs plastering his shoulders and chest. She turned and caught them sharing a look. Pity, again.

Logan cleared his throat. He glanced at her quick, then away again, uneasy.

"How about some fresh coffee?" he asked. He didn't wait for her to answer. He turned and left the room, busying himself in the kitchen, his head down as he ground up fresh beans.

She turned to Unambi. He closed the trap door and rolled the rug back in place, keeping his eyes averted from her.

"What's going on?" she asked, her voice rising, thin and tinged with desperation. "Why don't you tell me what they said?" Unambi kept his eyes on the rug, continuing to adjust it long after it needed it. She bellowed, frustrated and ran to Logan, slapping his hands away from the grinder. "Stop doing that! I don't want coffee! I want to know what you don't want to tell me," she screeched, hating the sound of her voice, all angles and points, like broken glass.

Logan let go of the grinder and turned to her. Unambi joined them, rubbing his hand over his mouth, slow, something he always did when he was worried. Idira waited, but the look in Logan's eyes started to make her regret her impatience. Maybe coffee wasn't such a bad idea after all. She opened her mouth to tell him to carry on when he started talking, the words coming out of his mouth so quick he was almost incoherent, as if he couldn't rid himself of the awful, horrible sentences he was forcing himself to say as fast as he wanted to.

 _The soldier, one of Stoutmantle's. Sent to find Logan. An apology. SI:7 Investigation. The Furlbrows' and Blanchy's murder solved. Hope Saldean guilty, wanted as Vanessa VanCleef for multiple murders. Vanessa in Moonbrook. Recruitment of transients. The Defias Brotherhood. Sentinel Hill burned. The mines a Defias stronghold once more. The Night's Cutlass repaired and prepared for use. Champions from Stormwind. Vanessa overwhelmed. Her refusal to be butchered like her father. A vial of poison. Gone to the Light._

Idira's knees turned to water, Logan caught her and helped her to a chair. She sat, looking down at her hands trembling on top of the table, numb. She looked up at Logan, at his blue eyes, usually stubborn and uncompromising, suddenly soft and filled with compassion.

She knew. Somehow she had known all along, sooner or later Vanessa was going to be caught, but not like this, back on the top deck of that awful ship, just like her father. Somewhere deep in her mind, Idira knew justice had been done, had _needed_ to be done. But still. She blinked and looked back down at her hands, Vanessa's crimes, so distant and unreal couldn't erase the memories Idira had; comforting Vanessa when she had bad dreams on the ship, or the hours she spent teaching her niece to read and write. How proud she had been of her when Vanessa could read aloud without help.

"And now, it's just me," she sighed. She lay her head on the table and said nothing for a long, long time.

* * *

After the news of Vanessa's suicide, Logan decided to stay a little while longer. As the days rolled by, Idira sensed he seemed to be waiting for her to give him her permission to go. While she was touched by his protectiveness, she knew there was nothing he could do to soften the pain of her loss, not just for Vanessa's short-sighted, vengeful choices, but for all the others Idira had lost; her small circle of family and friends reduced to just Logan, Unambi and Margle. At times Idira morbidly wondered if Azeroth herself was trying to eliminate all proof of her existence.

Perhaps meeting Khadgar was the only reason Idira had been born, her Light meant to be channelled by him for reasons she could not comprehend. Maybe she was nothing more than a vessel, hidden away in Westfall until she would be required, all her hopes and dreams of a magical connection with Azeroth's hero a fabrication of her overactive imagination. Maybe meeting Khadgar on the balcony of the floating city was the best part of her future and she would never see him again after that, maybe that one time was all there would ever be: after that she would be used by him for some greater purpose and then die just like all the others, never knowing or understanding anything about her Light or why she had been the one chosen to carry such a lonely, dangerous burden.

She withdrew into herself, fearful and worried. Unambi understood and left her alone, giving her the space she needed to try and make sense of her life and all her losses. He didn't pepper her with questions like Logan did, who desperately struggled to fill the gulfs of silence at the dinner table, never realising the kindest thing he could do was just let her be.

When he finally decided he would leave, Idira watched him pack his belongings, a part of her broken-hearted, trying to memorise him, fearing she might never see him again and a part of her relieved to see him go, moving on to his new life filled with promise and purpose, where he might be safe from her 'curse' as she now privately called her Light. Stoutmantle's messenger had given Logan two pieces of gold in compensation, which had provoked several long conversations with Unambi about his being unwilling to keep it, wanting to leave it behind for Idira, in case she might need it.

Eventually Unambi had his way, by finally admitting he still had a pair of gold candelabra hidden away. Satisfied, Logan kept his gold.

His bag packed, he went out onto the porch. Idira followed him into the yard where Unambi was already waiting. They stood together, the three of them, awkward, under a pink-smeared sky warming in the sunrise.

"It's going to be a scorcher today," Logan murmured to no one in particular as he looked up at the sky's canopy, clear and cloudless, just like every other day.

"Ya got ya waterskin filled?" Unambi asked, gruff.

Logan nodded and pulled his waterskin from his belt, giving it a jiggle to make sure he had filled it up enough. "Should last me until I get to the river, no problem." His eyes met Idira's. He opened his arms, waiting for her to hug him.

Now it was really happening, she didn't want him to leave. She bit her lip, her heart clenching so much it felt like she couldn't breathe. He came to her and gathered her up against him, enclosing her in the warm, familiar smell of his leather tunic and her homemade soap. She clung to him, her eyes wet with tears.

"Just be safe," she whispered, "I'd like to see you in your fancy armour some day—" Her voice wavered. She sniffed and continued, hesitant, plaintive. "You know, just like the heroes in the fairytales?"

He laughed, but it sounded hollow. "I'll do my best to look like a hero for you." His arms tightened around her, it hurt her ribs a little, but she didn't mind, it distracted her from the ache in her heart.

"As soon as I can, I'll come to see you. I promise," he answered, his voice tight. She felt his kiss against her brow and then he let her go. She backed up, blinking hard, trying to control the tears in her eyes. She'd promised herself she wouldn't cry. Unambi shook Logan's hand.

"Ya be takin' good care o' yaself, or ya got ol' Unambi ta be answerin' ta," he said, soft.

Logan pressed his lips together and nodded. He blinked hard and ducked his head, turning to look towards the sunrise. "Well, I'd better head out," he sighed. "It's a long walk to Stormwind. Four hours if I walk fast."

Idira knew everyone already knew that, and Logan was just talking for talk's sake, like he always did whenever he was nervous. He rubbed the back of his forefinger against the bottom of his nose, sniffed and nodded again.

"Well, then."

He hefted the sack containing his belongings over his shoulder. Scuffing the toe of his boot in the dry earth, he glanced back at the house and watched the curtains fluttering in the breeze, absently patting the front of his tunic, making sure the little leather bag holding his gold coins still hung from the cord around his neck. He looked at them one last time, his blue eyes glistening, his lashes spiky with unshed tears.

"Well, I suppose that's me then," he said, his voice creaking a little. "Time for me to be off on my adventures."

He walked out of the yard, past Blackie's grave, abundant with the purple flowers he'd planted; past the raised flower beds, burgeoning with life; past the chicken coop he'd remodelled and reinforced to withstand all but the most extreme weather. He kept walking, his stride increasing, moving faster as he passed the line of acacia trees and crossed the fallow fields, heading straight into the glare of the rising sun.

Her heart in her throat, Idira watched him go, the tears she had held back slipping free as she waited for him look back. Her vision blurred. She wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, her heart in her throat. If he was going to turn and wave, it would have to be soon. But he didn't. He kept walking, never once looking back, moving straight into the light of the rising sun. She felt Unambi's arm come around her shoulders, supporting her as she sagged against him, crying in earnest.

"Da Light be protectin' ya, lad," Unambi murmured, his voice thick with his own unshed tears. "Da Light be protectin' ya."

* * *

Without Logan at the farm, Idira had more work to do, but she welcomed it, it kept her busy, leaving her little time to dwell on the dark thoughts that had returned and begun to plague her. In less time than she'd anticipated they resumed their old routine, with Margle once more coming up every morning with his gifts from the sea, carrying them into the kitchen to Idira, his little webbed feet slapping, soft against the floorboards.

Every night before going to sleep, she kept track of the days using the bar and gate method Nin had taught her, marking the blank endpapers of her least favourite book. The months passed. As the count approached a year, she found herself glancing towards the eastern horizon more frequently, imagining Logan arriving on his horse, gleaming in his armour. But he didn't come. More months passed, then another year, swallowed up by the daily routine of living and tending the farm.

Once more, just like when she was little, no one ever came. The farm was too far away, too isolated. No roads led to their farm, not even a path, and since Logan had told Stoutmantle's messenger his intention of joining the military, no one from The Westfall Brigade had ever had any reason to make the trip back, either. They were utterly alone. At times she fancied they might be the only living beings in all of Azeroth.

Two more years drifted away, marked by the careful notations her book. The unchanging seasons and the endless, monotonous days punctuated only by the memory of two severe storms, though the damage they had done was nowhere near as serious as the day the dragon arrived. They cleared up the yard, replanted the gardens, repaired the damage to the buildings, and moved on. Her twenty-sixth birthday came and went, unremarked. She never dreamed of Khadgar, nor would she even allow herself to think of him anymore. It hurt too much. The books she had about him she stashed at the bottom of the book chest, where she knew she would never see them.

Since her birthday, she had begun to despair that even her belief that her Light—even if it was of no benefit to her—had a purpose. Not since those first days thirteen long years ago, right after they arrived, had anything happened.

After the day the dragon arrived, when she couldn't help the chickens, she'd never tried to call on her Light again. It had let Blackie die when she could have protected her. She simply wanted no part of it anymore, it was easier to close herself off from it, than to be continually disappointed.

She gazed at the dozens of numbered gates filling the endpapers of her book. Four long years had rolled by, each one blurring into the next, identical and unchanging since Logan left. Idira found herself beginning to believe she would live on the farm until she died, alone and unloved, until she became an old woman, never touched by a man, destined to be buried beside her cat. Even Logan had never come back. She suspected he had moved on, found a woman, had children and long forgotten about her. She understood, he would be almost thirty years old, long past time to be settling down, but still, it hurt so much when she thought about it, her heart so consumed with envy she felt like she couldn't breathe. What had she ever done to deserve such an empty, meaningless existence? But as always, for her, there were never any answers, only a deafening wall of silence.

* * *

In the dead of the night, Idira woke. The sound of approaching footfalls came from the cliff path. She sat up, straining to listen, her heart pounding. Silence. She exhaled, slow. Perhaps she had dreamt it, though it had sounded real enough. She waited. Still nothing. She lay back again, reassured. A dream, nothing more.

The footfalls came again, shuffling, hesitant, jagged against the distant familiar susurration of the ocean's waves washing up against the shore. She slipped from the bed and went to the sitting room, thinking to wake Unambi but he was already strapping on his belt, sheathing his daggers.

"Ya be waitin' in ya room until I be callin' ya name," he said so quiet his words barely reached the edge of her hearing. She nodded and fell back as he opened the door, the oiled hinges swivelling in total silence. He slipped out, not making a sound as he left the porch and went round the house.

Her heart pounding, she crept back to her room and sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers twisting into the material of her nightdress, fear scything through her, sharp. They had had things go their way for so long she had begun to take for granted how safe she believed they were, always expecting strangers to arrive from the east, never from the sea. And now, after all these years, in the dead of the night someone was coming up the cliff path as though they knew of its existence, hidden as it was in between the long, waving grasses.

She waited, biting her lip, listening for the fight she was certain was going to break out. Silence. Uneasy, she stood and moved to the wall facing the sea. The bedroom didn't have a window facing the cliffs, so she couldn't see anything. She pressed her ear against a wooden plank, holding her breath, a wild tendril of hope shooting through her. What if it was Logan? He knew the cliff path. Another thought followed, like the flash of a fish's scales in the sunlight, arcing across her mind before she could stop it. What if it was Khadgar, finally come for her? She shivered at the thought, unable to stop herself from savouring the possibility that at any moment, the man she had waited all her life to meet could walk through her front door.

Unambi called her name, startling her, making her jump. He called her name again, urgent, telling her to join him.

She hurried to pull on her shoes and bolted out of the house, running toward the cliff path, curiosity overwhelming her. Against a glittering wall of stars, she made out Unambi's silhouette standing over a ragged heap of what looked like a very thin man, sitting slumped on the ground.

"I found him like dis," he said. "Ya better be preparin' yaself."

Confused, Idira looked up at Unambi, his face lost to the shadows, the faint gleam of the stars barely catching his eyes. He reached down and grasped hold of the man's grey hair and tilted his face up to the wan light.

Idira stared, disbelieving, incredulous. The last person in all of Azeroth she ever expected to see, gazed up at her, his eyes blank and glassy with fever.

"Help me," he croaked through parched and cracked lips, holding up a trembling hand to her, imploring. "Please."

"Papa," she whispered, tears coming to her eyes as she took in his wretched state. He looked old, ill, and utterly pitiful, an emaciated version of the man he used to be.

"We have to help him," she said, leaning down to take hold of his arm. Through his ragged, stinking shirt, she could feel the bone of his upper arm, his skin moving, loose over it.

"No. We don'," Unambi said, cold. "Da best ting we can be doin' is endin' dis one here an' now. He be half-dead already."

Unambi was right, she knew he was right. Her father deserved to be killed. Apart from the horrible way Papa had treated her as a child, he had gambled away Myra to VanCleef in a card game, ruining her future with Benny and ultimately causing both their deaths. He had put her life at risk at Klaven's Tower when he tried to ambush VanCleef; had bombed the house they lived in, uncaring if his daughters lived or died and had driven an entire town to ruin in his war against VanCleef, forcing her and her sister to retreat to The Night's Cutlass to be buried alive for almost a year.

She had plenty of reasons to want her father dead, but looking at him like this, trembling with fever, his hands so thin she could almost see through them, the past clashed with the present, leaving her uncertain, unable to think straight. It felt wrong to kill him. As he looked up at her, blank, his mouth hanging open, the corners crusted with scabs, she sensed he wouldn't understand why he was being killed anyway.

She glanced up at her protector, already gripping one of his daggers, his eyes narrowed to deadly slits, seeing only the man who had captured and tortured him, his troll honour demanding that his wrong be righted, paid for with Papa's life.

"Please," she plead, soft. "Don't kill him. At least, not when he is like this. It's like killing a baby."

"Ya be askin' much from Unambi," he said in a voice that made Idira's blood run cold. Lulled into complacency by their peaceful life, she had forgotten who Unambi really was. He was no farmer or fisherman. He was warrior first and foremost, the son of the chief, and until Papa had deviously captured him by using paralysing poisons, Unambi would have been the next chief of his tribe. He had every right to butcher her father. She owed it to her protector to allow him to do so, but the thought of killing Papa, like this, would make them no better than her father.

She touched Unambi's hand, the one holding the dagger, sensing the tension in his body, the restrained anger, held in check only for her sake.

"Is there no other way he can repay his debt to you?" she asked, quiet.

He said nothing for a long time, just stared at Papa, still and steady, like a snake ready to strike.

"No," he finally answered. "He mus' pay da price wit' his blood."

"But what good would it be to do it now, when he will have no comprehension of it?"

"Da good be dat dis monsta' be dead an' da world a betta' place." He eyed her. "Why ya be wantin' ta defend dis one, afta' all he be doin' ta ya and ya sista'?"

"Because I have lost everyone, and there is a chance he might be sorry. If you kill him, I will never know," she tightened her hold on her father's arm, defensive. "I need to know. Please."

Unambi shook his head, but he lowered his dagger. "Ya be makin' a terrible troll," he muttered as he slid his dagger back into its sheath. As he bent to hoist up her father, he cut a look at her, severe. "Ya can have dis time ta be nursin' him back ta health, but if he be da same as before," he drew his finger across his throat, "Unambi be takin' what's owed."

Idira nodded, relief washing over her. A part of her believed Unambi was right. Papa was bad, he had always been so, there would be no reason for him to have changed. She looked at her father, stumbling along beside them, his boots so worn that his toes stuck out the front, his filthy flesh torn and blackened with dried blood. As she helped him up the steps, breathing through her mouth to lessen the stink of him, she realised even if he was still bad, she had no other choice but to try, because she was nothing like him, or even Myra. She was Idira. She was different, and somehow knowing that made her feel just a little bit better.

* * *

After two weeks of failing to break Papa's fever, Idira began to fear he might never get better. It seemed he was destined to lay in her bed, dying slowly while his body shut down, a prisoner to his low-grade fever, never once recognising her or giving her the chance to find out if he felt any regret. Apart from staying away from Papa, Unambi said nothing, though he made no effort to hide the fact that he checked his daggers often, spending more time than Idira felt was necessary sharpening his blades.

Papa never talked, he just lay in the bed, sleeping or staring, vacant, at the rafters, his thin fingers wrapped around the top of the bed sheet, kneading the material in his fists, like a baby. For being such an awful man when he was well, he was an extremely cooperative, passive person when he wasn't, as easy to care for as a kitten. He certainly weighed no more than one. He never complained, never refused his broth, and whatever Idira asked him to do, he obeyed without question.

Then, one evening three weeks after he'd appeared, just as she finished drying the dishes from dinner, she heard him call out from the bed, his voice thin and weak.

"Myra?"

Idira went to the bedroom door, cautious, suddenly overwhelmed by feelings of uncertainty, fearing she had made a terrible mistake by hoping for a miracle she knew in her heart would never happen. From the corner of her eye, she caught Unambi creeping in from the porch, his daggers at the ready, waiting, tense, just out of Papa's line of sight. He nodded at her to go in.

"Papa?" she asked as she approached the bed, still clutching the linen drying towel. "Are you feeling better?"

His eyes, sunken and bruised drifted to her. He tried to sit up, but fell back, exhausted.

"Where's Myra?" he asked, his voice hoarse.

"She's gone, Papa," Idira answered. When he looked at her expectantly, she continued, her heart aching, "She won't be coming back."

He nodded and looked around the room, taking in the furnishings, the rugs and Idira's collection of seashells displayed on a shelf on the wall. After a while, he patted the bed beside him, gesturing for Idira to sit. She shook her head. She had no idea if he even knew who she was.

"Is she dead?" he asked, the slack skin of his grizzled grey jaw wobbling under his protruding cheekbones.

Idira nodded.

His eyes glinted, whether from anger or grief, Idira couldn't tell.

"Was it that mad bastard what killed my girl?" Again he struggled to sit up, and failed.

Idira looked down at the rug, bridling at his audacity. Had he actually forgotten about bombing their house with them in it? She opened her mouth to tell him so, then realised she didn't want to have this conversation, the past was best where it had been left, in the past. Fighting about it now wouldn't change anything.

She nodded again, her throat tight. What was the point in saying it was all his fault, that VanCleef's murder of Benny and Myra's suicide was only the end of a long line of tragic circumstances started by her father when he lost her in a card game. It would only lead to an argument and Unambi ending Papa's life, and then she would never know if her father had ever felt any remorse for his terrible, heinous crimes.

She glanced up at him. A tear slid out of his eye, and down his cheek. He sniffed and wiped it away, his fingers trembling. He glanced up at her.

"I see ye still got them magic purple eyes," he said, gruff.

Idira didn't say anything.

"Well, never mind about that," he said as another tear escaped. He brushed at it, trying to make it look like he had an itch. "Ye turned out real pretty anyway. Like yer Ma, I'm sure some boyo'll love ye, or have ye got yerself a man already?"

"No man, Papa. Not yet."

He huffed and looked around again. "Looks real nice in here," he said, "all cosy like yer Ma used ta have it." He fell silent and glanced out into the kitchen, lit in the soft glow of candlelight. "Ye're not livin' out here all by yer lonesome are ye? It ain't safe."

"I have the troll with me, he protects me."

Her father's eyes widened, and what little colour he'd had, drained away. "Then why ain't I already dead?"

"Because I asked him to let you live, for a little while at least."

"Ye're so much like yer Ma, good all the way through. Nothin' like me," he said, soft. "I'm guessin' ye want to know if I been regrettin' my actions or not."

"Well, _do_ you?" Idira blurted out, sharper than she'd meant to.

Her father looked down at his hands as he fidgeted with the sheet, folding it over and smoothing it down. He scratched his ear.

"There ain't enough time in the world ta make up fer all the wrong I done," he answered, slow. "Yer Papa's a bad man. I ain't never done one good thing in my life. Not one thing. But if ye want me ta suffer for what I done, jus' let me live. It's the livin' wit' it what's hard." Another tear slipped free, tracking its way down his nose to hang suspended on its tip. He didn't bother to wipe it away. He slid a look up at her, sly.

Something stuttered to a halt within Idira. He was lying. He hadn't changed at all. He thought she was stupid, and wouldn't be able to tell. Her chest tightened so much, she couldn't breathe. She backed away, and hurried outside, gulping at the fresh evening air, pushing her way through the raised garden, unseeing, until she reached the shadowy line of acacia trees. When she stopped she realised she was still holding the dish towel, her hands shaking. Unambi strode up from behind her.

"He be tryin' ta put da confusion in ya mind," Unambi said, pacing back and forth as he glared at the house, glowing in its warm pool of candlelight, filled with hostility. "Don' ya be listenin' ta dat talk. Once ya bad, ya stay bad."

"It's just," Idira whispered, "I had hoped, now that it's all over, now that he's lost and Westfall will never be his, maybe he would be sorry and want to change and be a better man before he died . . ." She looked up at Unambi, her throat so tight she couldn't continue.

"An' be a real Papa ta ya an' make all dem wrongs he done ta ya right, hm?" Unambi asked, quiet.

Idira choked and nodded, the ache inside her drawing so taut, she felt as though she would snap in two. She pressed her hand to her heart, trying to ease the hurt as a lifetime of heartache engulfed her. Her whole life she had waited for this moment, believing that one day if she ever saw him again, he would change, be a good Papa, say sorry and mean it. He'd help around the farm, and they'd be a family. But it would never be. Her pain blossomed, opening, rushing over her, years of buried hurt and anguish, betrayal and confusion, her agony so raw, so untouched, buried intact since the times he had hurt her, she couldn't even cry. Unambi took hold of her arms and steadied her, helping her over to a tree stump to sit.

"Ya be stayin' here. It be time ta be finishin' dis. Though he don' be deservin' it, Unambi'll make it quick."

Numb, Idira stared at him, his words not sinking in. He turned away. Realisation slammed into her. He was going to kill Papa. She lunged forward and caught his arm. "No. It's murder. We would be no better than him. He should be handed over to Stoutmantle, to be tried."

"An' how we goin' ta be doin' dat?" he asked, watching her, patient as she worked out the logistics.

She slumped, defeated. It was impossible. She would have to walk, alone and unprotected all the way to Sentinel Hill and then bring soldiers back to the farm, exposing her existence there and perhaps even causing Unambi and her to be separated for good if the soldiers decided she wasn't safe living there 'alone'. No. The risk was too great.

At the edge of her hearing she thought she heard a metallic sound, a light clanking, steady and rhythmic. Unambi must have heard it too, because he stood up, turning until he faced the north-east, listening, his eyes narrow.

"A soldier," he grunted after several moments. "Movin' in dis direction. Ya might jus' be gettin' what ya be wishin' for afta' all. Go on back ta da house, I'll be in da shadows if ya be needin' me."

Idira slipped back through the raised garden beds and up into the warm glow of the house. She checked on her father, who snored, loud on the pillows. She scoffed, so much for remorse, if he could sleep like a baby after what he'd just said. She went to the table and sat down to wait, preparing herself, thinking of what she was going to have to say.

The clanking drew closer, right up to the bottom steps of the house. It stopped.

"Idira!" a man's voice called out, commanding.

Her head came up. The voice sounded a little like Logan's. She jumped up, knocking over her chair in her haste to get to the door. She flung it open, and there, standing in a full suit of armour, a little dented in places, his helm caught up under the crook of his arm, stood Logan, looking every bit just like one of the heroes from her fairytale books, handsome, strong, and battle-scarred.

"Start packing," he said, abrupt.

"What?" Idira asked, as Unambi came forward and Logan nodded at him. "Why?"

He glanced up at the quiet sky, sparkling with its innocent carpet of stars, wary. "Demons, from another world, attacking all over Azeroth from their sky ships. You're not safe here."

"Demons?" Idira repeated, struggling to keep up. "I thought those were made up to scare children into behaving."

Logan laughed, bitter. "If only. Pack, we leave tonight."

"Where are we going?"

"Stormwind, it's safest for you there."

Idira glanced at Unambi. She looked back at Logan and raised an eyebrow. "And Unambi?"

"I'll look after you from now on. With these new, dangerous times upon us, you need to be somewhere more secure than here." He turned to address Unambi. "You know you can't come to Stormwind. It's time for you to head back to your people. Probably best to stick to the coastline."

"You've changed," Idira said, noticing how brusque and commanding Logan had become, all his edges honed to brutal, razor sharpness.

"I'm alive," he answered, curt. He waved a gauntleted hand, gesturing for her to go back into the house. "We can talk later, right now I need you to pack. I had to pull a lot of strings to get myself out here in time to warn you."

"There's more than just me," Idira said, glancing back towards the bedroom.

Logan glanced at her, sharp. Jealousy flared in his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"My father turned up, half-dead three weeks ago. He's not well enough yet to walk."

Logan stared at her, incredulous.

"And you helped him?" he bellowed, furious. "What's wrong with you? You should have ended him as soon as you had the chance."

Idira blinked. The military life had certainly changed Logan, and not for the better. She wasn't so sure she wanted to do as he told her, not when he had turned into such a tactless bully.

"Dat man be da girl's father," Unambi said into the sudden stark silence, his words tinged with reproach. "She be needin' da time ta be comin' ta terms wit' tings, wit' what be needin' ta be done wit' him."

Logan scoffed. "Well, I hope you've come to terms with things because _I'm_ not bringing him. He'll slow us down too much. He can face the demons alone, it's more than he deserves. In fact," he said as he pulled his sword free and stormed up the steps, "I'm going to solve this right now, that man ruined thousands of lives. This ends tonight."

Idira threw herself in his path, bracing her arms against the doorframe. "Wait!" she cried, "He should be given a trial, what about all those others who deserve to see him brought to justice? No one person should have the right to take his life."

Logan barked a harsh laugh. "There's no time for trials. Remember when that dragon came, how much damage it did? It might have been vanquished by a multitude of champions but that one dragon, even with all its power has turned out to be nothing compared to what's happening now. The Legion Invasion is far wor—"

His mouth kept moving for several more words, but Idira couldn't hear him. A roar came from the sky, filling her ears, deafening her, making her head ache. A rushing wind rose up, rising from the ground, a vortex, sudden and sharp, pulling her hair free of its pins, sending it flying around her face and into her mouth; the skirts of her dress snapping against her legs and her apron billowing up between her and Logan, wild, like a living thing.

Above, the sky flared bright, as though filled with sheet lightning, but instead of white, a sickly, putrid, foul colour of green reached all the way across the sky's canopy. It touched the horizon for a heartbeat, then retreated, racing back to its point of origin, coalescing into a massive swirling maelstrom, taking up a quarter of the sky. From within its centre, the shape of a flying ship unlike any boat Idira had ever seen slid out of the light's core, materialising, black against the halo of green. It pulled free, and hung suspended in the sky, a long, flattened, triangular shaped ship, over the centre of Westfall, the vile light of the maelstrom playing against its black metallic surface.

A long jagged blast of sound came from the ship, deep, low and mechanical, making Idira's legs go numb. She clung onto the door frame, struggling to stay on her feet. From inside the portal, another ship emerged, sliding out of the light's viscous, streaming centre. It swept out, silent, exactly the same as the first ship, coming to a halt further south, over Moonbrook, hovering silent, deadly, terrifying.

The ships sounded their strange horns again, Idira's legs gave out under her, paralysed by the decimating sound. She cried out, clapping her hands over her ears, pain exploding into her head. She could taste the metallic taint of blood in her mouth. Her hands felt wet. She pulled one away and stared at it in shock. Blood.

The noise increased, brutal, tearing at her mind. She screamed, wishing she could die to make the pain stop. The trunks of the acacia trees split in half and crashed to the ground, one smashed into the roof of the shed, carrying the whole structure down with it. The chicken coop trembled, shuddering, shaking, resisting. It heaved and caved in, then ballooned outwards, expanding until it exploded, the noise of its shattering drowned out by the devastating blast of the horns. The blasts stopped, abrupt. Not even an echo followed in their wake.

Pieces of wood and wire rained down onto the roof of the house from the coop, clattering against the slates, others skidded and tumbled across the yard, slamming into the walls of the raised garden beds and over Blackie's grave. All across the yard, the broken, bloodied bodies of the chickens lay in tiny, mottled heaps. A flutter of movement caught Idira's eye. She turned, slow. One of the chickens had landed on the porch, its mouth opened and closed as blood pooled under its head, thick, dark and glutinous. Its eye rolled back into its head as its body spasmed, jerking in its final death throes. She recognised the bird. Thea, one of her favourites. Always a good layer. Numb, she reached out to stroke its feathers.

Logan grabbed onto Idira's arm, jerking her away from the dead chicken, his leather-clad hand hoisting her to her feet, rough. "Get up!" he shouted into her face, though she could barely hear him over the feeling of wool in her head, the ringing in her ears. "We have to move. Now!"

Held in his vice-like grip, she stumbled after him down the steps, her thoughts in tatters. Too much had happened, too fast. Another ship began to slip through the churning hole in the sky. Idira cowered. Nothing could survive the blast of three of those ships, even the land would disintegrate.

She looked back at the house, feeling as though she had forgotten something. Unambi loped after them, his eyes on her, protective. Her thoughts moved slow, sluggish. Then it came, as clear as crystal. Papa. They had left him behind, helpless and alone. They were no better than him. She dug her heels into the soil, pulling Logan to a halt.

He turned, the whites of his eyes reflecting the sickly green colour of the sky. He glared at her, livid. She yanked her arm free and pointed at the house. "Papa!" she mouthed, knowing it was no use to scream.

He shook his head and pointed at the sky, where the third ship was just pulling free from the portal. It pivoted, slow, and began to slide across the sky in total silence towards the farm, processing, bleak, stately, aloof, uncaring. An incomprehensible thing.

She turned and ran, holding her skirts up around her knees, Unambi right behind her. She could feel her Light building within her, and despite the horrors unfolding around them, she felt euphoria. It wasn't gone. It wasn't over. Her Light could save them all. This was her fight, she could feel it, this was what her Light had been waiting for, this invasion of demons. She had never before felt so alive. Her whole body thrummed, awakening to a power she felt she couldn't contain. She ran up the steps into the house and tore into the bedroom. Her father huddled on the floor, blood dripping from his nose, mouth and ears. He looked up at her, then drew back, horrified, shaking his head, recoiling from her touch.

"Don't ye touch me!" he shouted as she reached out to help him up. He rubbed the back of his arm against his mouth and nose, smearing blood across his face. "Look at ye, with those accursed eyes, glowin' like that. Ye did this ta me, didn't ye, ye evil purple-eyed bitch. Jus' like at Klaven's Tower." He reached up and pulled a kitchen knife from under his pillow, quick as lightning he pressed its point, cold, against her throat.

Unambi burst into the room, his chest rising and falling, ignoring the furious shouts of Logan coming from outside the house. His hands darted to the hilts of his daggers.

"Not so fast," Papa growled. "Yer days o' protectin' this witch're over."

Idira felt the knife's point bite through her skin, stinging, burning hot, drawing blood. She stifled a cry, it hurt far more than she thought it would. She called to her Light, it seethed, crowding the inner edges of her being, more powerful than she had ever felt it before, yet nothing happened. She met Unambi's eyes, watching her, a dagger in each hand, waiting. He nodded at her, slow.

"Da Light will protect ya if I can't," he said, soft. "Don' be afraid."

A shearing hiss sliced through the air. In the middle of the room, the distorted image of a nightmarish creature flickered, appearing in segments, the space around it liquefying, as the thing took shape. Papa drew back, startled. Something hurtled past Idira, making tendrils of her hair drift past her face, caught in the draft. A heavy thud. The knife clattered to the floor. Her father slammed back against the bed, crying out, scrabbling at the hilt of Unambi's dagger. He held out his hand to her.

"Help me," he panted. She shook her head and scuttled away from him, moving on all fours across the room, grabbing hold of Unambi's outstretched hand just as the demon materialised.

A dog. No. Not a dog. It did have four legs, a head and a tail, but the similarities ended there. It was a thing. A nightmare. A pair of long, curved, pointed horns extruded from its red-scaled shoulders, pointed downwards, perfect for gouging its victim. She couldn't see any eyes, its head appeared to be nothing other than a massive mouth. It growled and sniffed, slavering, its saliva dripping onto the rug, where it sizzled and burned straight through the rug and into the floorboards, filling the room with the smell of sulphur. From its back, two writhing tentacles with dripping three-pointed appendages darted and seethed, seeking. It opened its mouth, exposing rows upon rows of jagged pointed teeth, far more vicious looking than even the sharks' that washed up onto the beach, dead.

Idira glanced at Unambi. He stood completely still. The thing didn't seem to be aware of their presence yet. Outside, the sound of more demons arriving filled the air, the shearing hiss repeating dozens of time as they materialised all over the farm. They talked to each other, some deep and guttural, others gurgling like boiling water, several of them screeched, their cries burrowing into Idira's spine, like a dagger across glass.

Papa groaned, loud, still grappling with the dagger's hilt, his hands slick with blood. The demon snorted, its head and tentacles swivelling towards him. It howled and leapt across the room, its mouth opening wide, its teeth glistening. Unambi covered Idira's eyes and yanked her back, into the kitchen. Her father's blood curdling screams filled her ears, turning her blood to ice.

"Now be a good time ta be makin' us invisible again," Unambi murmured, low.

Despite her father's horrifying, agonised screams, she forced herself to focus, doing exactly the same thing she had done before on The Night's Cutlass.

 _Make us invisible._

Nothing happened. From within the bedroom, the screams stopped, replaced by the nauseating sound of bones snapping; the stink of her father's blood, entrails and faeces filling the confined space. She tried again, her concentration wavering as the gruesome noises coming from within the bedroom escalated. The Light churned, pounding against her inner being, desperate to escape, but no matter how hard she focussed, nothing else happened. They remained totally visible.

Unambi nodded and flexed his fingers on his remaining dagger. "Den it be time ta fight."

Idira felt the blood drain from her face as one of the demons outside moved past the sitting room window, its massive cloven hooves carrying so much weight, the windows rattled in time to his steps as it thudded across the ground. She could only see up to its waist, which meant it was at least twice the height of the house. A sensation of dread clawed into her. Unambi couldn't fight these things and survive, to match these creatures of the Void, an army would be needed, and magic, _a lot_ of magic. From somewhere across the yard she could hear the clank of Logan's armour as he battled against a demon.

The dog-like demon had stopped feeding. Idira turned, holding her breath, watching, horrified as it moved into the kitchen, using its tentacles to seek out its next kill. A sound came from the open front door, another demon ducked into the house, tall, like a man, and heavily muscled but with blue-green skin, it wore red plate armour up to its waist, plate gloves and on one shoulder a massive plated shoulder guard. From its disproportionately small head, a massive red spike rose above it, matching the row of spikes protruding from its spine. In his metal-encased hand he carried a large curved axe, big enough to cleave a man in two with one strike. The Light within her throbbed, hungry, making her stagger. The two demons, who didn't seem to be able to see very well, suddenly turned, homing in on her, snarling and sniffing.

"Anytime ya be wantin' ta use dat Light would be a good time," Unambi said under his breath.

Idira tried, with all her might she tried. She could feel a tsunami building within her, so powerful, it felt like it might carry her away. Yet nothing happened. She didn't know what to do. She was in danger, the Light was supposed to protect her, why wasn't it protecting her?

The demons moved closer, snorting, curious. Her heart pounding, she closed her eyes, begging the Light to come to their aid. Nothing. She looked up at Unambi and shook her head. They were going to die. This was where it was going to end. She should have listened to Logan and run.

Unambi slipped to the side of the dog demon, dodging its horns as it moved its head from side to side, searching, blind. He slashed away its tentacles. It threw its head up, screeching, a high, thin, ear-splitting howl as it turned in circles, crashing against the furniture in its desperation to escape. The other demon turned its head, confused, looking from side to side, its tiny eyes squinting in the bright candlelight, staggering as the dog demon crashed into him. He roared and slammed his weapon down onto it, cleaving it almost in half. The dog squealed as the demon pulled its battle axe free, still living. The demon roared again, and lifted its weapon up, hacking into the thing until it stopped moving, its hind leg thrashed once, then fell silent.

Unambi raised his dagger to attack the remaining demon when the sound of pounding feet filled the air, the sound of fighting drawing all those nearby into the house, at least the ones who could fit into the door. Outside the window Idira could see more of them, gathering around, hungry, their eyes glowing red, leathery wings rustling, their taloned fingers clawing at the planks. One of them held something limp in its hands, tearing at it with its teeth, as though eating a chicken. It shifted the thing and she saw its face. She choked. Margle's empty eyes looked back at her, dull, lightless. Unambi pushed her behind him, his hand clapping over her mouth just in time to catch her scream. He shook his head.

"He be gone ta da Light, he don' feel nothin' now."

He backed her up against the far wall of the kitchen, blocking her view of Margle's dismemberment. The house seethed with more than a dozen demons, snarling and shifting, gripping their hateful, deadly demonic blades, glowing with the same foul green light as the one in the sky.

"I tink dis time Unambi won' be gettin' up from dis fight," he said, soft. "But da Light got a plan, and it be a good one, ya got ta trust dat Light. Ya real special, Idira, don' ya be forgettin' dat."

"What do you mean?" Idira whispered, panicking, frightened by what he was saying, even as the Light surged within her, the force of it lifting her up onto her toes, overwhelming her. The shadows in the room shifted, rotating until they spread away from her, the brightest source of light. In her glare, the demons shifted, confused, some of them lifted their hands to shield their eyes, blinded.

"It be a real honour ta be chosen as ya protecta'," Unambi said, tears glinting in his eyes. "But Unambi got one last ting ta be doin' ta help ya be escapin' dis mess." He patted her head, gentle. "Don' ya be forgettin' ol' Unambi now."

He was leaving her. No. It wasn't meant to be like this, the Light would save them, she just needed more time. She lunged after him, but he slipped free and rushed into the seething mass of nightmarish creatures, slashing into them, cutting a swathe through the first three, bringing them down before they could even react. He climbed over their fallen bodies to attack the others. Driven mad by the scent of blood, the demons bellowed, desperate to fight, surrounding him. Their weapons fell and lifted back up again, dark with blood. His blood.

"No!" Idira screamed, frantic. The Light boiled within her, rising up, bursting through the last barriers, driven by her terror, fear and rage. "I won't lose you, too!"

Brilliant violet light flooded her, exploding outwards. Silence. She lifted from the floor, the Light rotating, spinning faster and faster, streaming out of her. She looked down, she was nothing. Only her Light existed, radiating from her core, piercing, powerful, disintegrating the demons in front of her, squirming and shrieking, struggling to escape. The Light swarmed back to her, gathering once more, its tendrils circling her, burning hot, freezing cold, speeding up until she pulsed, her Light burning brighter than a star.

A heartbeat of utter stillness, visions tumbled through her mind, crystal clear. Khadgar. The balcony. A library within a stone tower filled with flying books. A dark chamber, cast in a sickly green light. A wall of ice. A silver circlet. A portal to eternity.

Her Light surged, an explosion, blasting out of her, fragmenting her. Streaming away for miles. She screamed, but she had no mouth. Silence. Darkness. Nothing.

* * *

Someone was shouting, but it came from far away. A long, dark corridor separated her from the voice, bossy and commanding. She ignored it, hoping it would go away. She was fine where she was, drifting in nothingness.

 _Idira. Can you hear me? Please, for the love of the Light, please. Wake up!_

She opened her eyes. She couldn't move. She lay on the earth, surrounded by the shattered foundation of the house, the ragged remains of a blackened structure rose above her, parts of it still burning. In the distance, beyond the smoking beds of the ruined gardens, the acacia trees blistered and cracked, consumed by flame. She felt nothing. She wondered if she was dead.

Logan bent over her, a brutal gash across his forehead seeped blood. "Thank the Light!" he breathed. He brushed the hair from her eyes. "Can you hear me?" he asked, urgent.

She didn't answer, she couldn't remember how.

His metal-clad arms slid underneath her. She felt herself being lifted into the air, floating again, just like before. She gazed up at the heavens, listening to the clank of his armour as he strode away.

From somewhere deep in her mind, a fragment of an old conversation rose up out from the chaos of her thoughts. She clung to it, though it made no sense.

 _It's a long walk to Stormwind. Four hours if I walk fast._

Above, the sky sparkled, clear again. The swirling portal and the ships were gone, as though they had been nothing more than a bad dream. She looked up at the stars, her eyelids drifting down.

The Light had saved her, just like Unambi said it would.

She closed her eyes and slept, dreaming of the one she lost and would never forget.


	14. Author's Message

**Author's Message**

* * *

Hello Dear Readers,

I hope you are enjoying _Daughter of Azeroth_.

Thank you so much for your Reviews, Favourites and Follows, I do so appreciate them.

Chapter 12 concludes Part I of _Daughter of Azeroth_.

 ** _Chapter 13 (the beginning of Part II of Daughter of Azeroth) will be published on Friday March 10_**

Between _Into the Light_ and _Daughter of Azeroth_ , I have been writing non-stop since the beginning of November, and need a rest so I can continue to give my best. I hope you will understand.

In the meantime, if you fancy reading the book that gave rise to _Daughter of Azeroth_ , my other novel _Into the Light_ awaits!

See you on March 10!


	15. Chapter 13

**CHAPTER 13**

* * *

"So Logan walks in, right, like some kind of hero, wearing all his armour, and a big old gash across his head, carrying this girl in his arms, and says to me, he says: could I look after her for a few nights until she gets better. And you know how much I fancy him, right? I mean, he's _so_ delicious, I just couldn't say no, but now here's me thinking, who _is_ she and why is he making her _my_ problem? And anyway what's in it for _me_? I mean, besides the silver he paid me."

Idira opened her eyes. She lay in four poster bed covered by a threadbare canopy, heavily patched. Two tallow candles stood in cheap iron holders, their flames bobbing up and down, caught in a draught, sending up little gouts of black smoke. In the candleholders' drip pans, puddles of melted tallow shimmered, greasy. One candle holder perched on top of a scuffed, otherwise bare dresser, the other stood right at the edge of a rickety bedside table, its candle jammed into the holder at a crooked angle so its fat dripped down the side of the gouged and scarred cabinet and onto the stone-flagged floor.

The light from the candles made Idira's eyes hurt. She closed them again, sensing an awakening ache, a deep hollowness gnawing at her, suffusing her in grief, though she had no idea why. Something had happened. Something terrible. She struggled to remember. Whatever it was, it felt important. Flashes of memories, sharp as lightning rose up, incoherent, only to disappear just as quickly. She searched her mind, washed clean like the shore of the beach at low tide. Nothing.

From outside the half-open door came the clatter of crockery and the steady _clop clop_ of someone chopping vegetables against a wooden board. Further away, laughter, singing, the merry strings of a fiddle, playing a jig. Someone called for more wine in a shouty, obnoxious voice. The delicious smell of roasting meat and the warmth of fresh baked buns mingled with the sour tang of spilled ale, all of it overlaid by the pervasive scent of tallow candles and wood smoke.

The voice continued, a little nasally, though it was softened by a pleasing lilt, with just an edge of tease, leaving Idira uncertain whether the woman's words were serious or in jest.

"Now don't you be looking at me like that Ryback, you know Logan's had me once or twice, well," she giggled, "more'n twice. And the last time, he even stayed all the way until the morning, although it might have been because he was so drunk, but still, don't you be telling me he's not thinking of taking things further, alright? But this favour he's asked of me, well, it takes the biscuit. Who does he think he is dumping some girl on me like that, without so much as telling me her name or what she is to him?"

Ryback, whoever they were, said nothing. The sound of chopping continued, steady and calm, like the hooves of a plodding horse.

"Anyway," she continued, lowering her voice, conspiratorial, "I don't like the look of her. She's got strange eyes. When Logan laid her on the bed, she opened them a little, and I swear on Lord Uther's grave that her eyes glowed bright purple. Like nothing I ever saw in my life. Gave me the willies, it did."

The chopping ceased. "Don't you have tables to be seeing to, Elly?" a man asked, his voice gravelly and a little rough, like he drank and smoked a lot. The chopping started again, at exactly the same pace.

"Well! I never!" Elly exclaimed in mock outrage. "What's got into _you_?" She laughed, though it sounded a little mean. Idira could hear the sound of crockery being loaded onto a tray, careless. "Oooh, maybe our Ryback has a thing for our new guest. Maybe he wants to give her some Ryback sausage, eh? You _do_ like it freaky don't you. I heard about you and that draenei healer, Maegan told me."

The chopping slowed for a beat, then continued, a little faster and definitely much louder.

"Logan's girl is real pretty," Ryback finally replied, obviously choosing to ignore Elly's taunt. He stopped chopping. An empty pot clanged onto the table followed by the scrape of a knife against the cutting board. A cascade of thuds as the vegetables tumbled into the pot. "Curves in all the right places. Can see why he likes her, purple eyes aside."

"What do you mean Logan's girl?" Elly demanded, sharp. " _I'm_ his girl. Everyone knows it too." She grunted, presumably from lifting the serving tray filled with plates of food. She huffed, sounding deeply annoyed as she moved across the stone floor and stomped up a little flight of creaky, wooden stairs and out into the noise of an inn, which was where Idira guessed Logan had brought her. She wished she could remember who he was and why she was here.

"Huh," Ryback said, sniffing, indignant. "' _Everyone knows it_ ', she says. You're dreaming girl. Any man with eyes in his head can see Logan's just using you cause he can't have the one he really wants. I always wondered who she was, but I don't need to wonder anymore, not the way he was looking at her when he brought her in, like he was scared out of his mind she was going to die. If that ain't love, I don't know what is."

The sound of more vegetables tumbled onto the table. The chopping started again. Lulled by the rhythmic sound of his work, Idira felt the pull of sleep. She had almost slipped away when Ryback stopped, abrupt, and huffed.

"And I only kissed that draenei for a bet. That doesn't make me freaky. And even if I did do something with her later—which I _didn't_ —well, not much, anyway, still, it's not like I took a gnome home with me. Now _that_ would definitely be freaky. Draenei are ok, though. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all."

* * *

When Idira opened her eyes again, a well-built man wearing a leather tunic and breeches sat on the edge of the bed beside her, his big hand holding hers. She watched him as he stroked her fingers with his rough, calloused ones, deep in thought, unaware of her gaze on him. Though his long, dark hair had been tied back in a ponytail, his face remained hidden in shadow. Only one candle still burned, the one on the dresser, though it guttered, clinging to the last remnants of its life. Outside her room, the inn lay shrouded in quiet. A faint glow came from the half-open door, presumably from the banked fire in the kitchen. A terrified squeak, followed by the patter of feline feet, as a cat chased and killed her prey. The crunch of tiny bones. The sound reminded Idira of something, but she couldn't remember what. Had she had a cat?

The candle spluttered and went out, the shadows deepened. The man sighed and let go of her hand. She closed her eyes, listening to the creak of leather as he leaned over and stroked the hair from her forehead.

"Come back," he murmured. "It's been two days now. I'm getting really worried."

She peeked out from between her lashes. The only light came from the banked fire, but it was enough for her to see the faint glint of tears in his eyes.

"Logan?" she whispered, guessing by his behaviour he might be the same man Elly and Ryback had been talking about. Despite having no memory of who he was, or what he meant to her, she tried to sit up. She couldn't, she had no strength at all.

He blinked, his fingers darting to his eyes, trying to rid himself of his tears. "Idira! Thank the Light," he exhaled, his voice tight, as his arm came around her shoulders, strong, solid, reassuring. He eased her up with almost no effort and settled her back against the bed's headboard.

So he _was_ the Logan she had heard the others speaking of. She could just about make out the contours of his face, the gleam of his even, white teeth as he smiled a little.

"It's been a long wait," he said, quiet. "You have no idea how relieved I am to see you awake again. How do you feel?"

Numb, she felt numb. But she didn't think that was the answer he was looking for, instead she answered, "Tired, mostly. I can't remember anything from before I woke up, even though it feels like I have much to recall," she hesitated, then decided not to tell him she couldn't remember who he was, at least until she knew whether she could trust him. She glanced at the door. "Where am I?"

"The Pig and Whistle Inn, Stormwind," he replied. "I'm a regular here since it's close to the barracks. Elly's the head waitress here. I asked her to look after you for me until I can figure out what to do next. I couldn't take you to the barracks with me, obviously." He fell quiet, appearing to take some time to consider his next words. "Perhaps it is for the best you don't remember anything for now," he sighed. "You need to get your strength back first. Plenty of time for the rest later."

In the wake of his words an awkward silence fell, Idira couldn't help but think of the conversation she had overheard between Elly and Ryback when she had first woken up. Before she could stop herself she blurted out, "Is Elly your girlfriend?"

"What?" Logan started. "No!"

"She seems to think so," Idira pointed out, dry. "I heard her saying you—"

"Well, she's _not_ ," Logan interrupted, his tone leaving no doubt in Idira's mind that the conversation was over. He fell silent for a beat, then took her hand again.

"Idira," he said, low, hesitant, "I know we can't ever be together like a man and wife, but if you want, now that you are all alone, I'd like to take care of you. I've been promoted a few times in the last four years and have a good amount of money saved up, not quite enough yet to buy an apartment and furnish it, but I'm close." He stopped and rubbed his hand across the back of his neck, the fingers of his other hand absently stroking the back of hers. "I was thinking maybe when you get better, you could work here for your food and board, and tips of course, until I can get us a place of our own. What do you think?"

She sensed he was nervous as he waited for her answer, as though he had offered her a marriage proposal. She wished she knew who he was to her. Would she accept if she had all her memories? He certainly had presence, and even in the dim light of the banked fire she could see why Elly had a thing for him, he was the kind of man women dream of. But what did he mean about them not being able to be together as a man and wife, why wouldn't she want to be with him? Maybe there was something wrong with her. Would she have to live with him and _his_ wife one day? She didn't like the thought of that.

 _Now that you are all alone._ His words flashed through her mind, bright, sharp, vivid. An intense stab of grief struck her, so strong it took her breath away. Her throat tightened, aching and raw, as ragged emotions, anger, sadness, rage and longing tore through her. She pressed her hand against her chest, to ease the ache in her heart. Something terrible had happened, she could _feel_ it. Something so awful her mind wasn't letting her remember, though she sensed she wouldn't remain like this forever, oblivious to what had gone before. The sensation of grief melted away, as quick as it had speared her. She blinked back her tears, biting her lower lip as a tendril of hope rose up from the ruins of her pain, a feeling of certainty flooding her, though she could find no foundation for it. Someone else was still out there, waiting. Logan was wrong.

"Idira?" Logan asked, quiet. "Will you share your life with me this way? I promise to keep my private arrangements separate."

So he wasn't going to marry anyone else. Stranger and stranger. She realised with a start Ryback had been right, Elly was nothing more than a 'private arrangement' to make up for the one Logan couldn't have, who apparently happened to be her.

"Perhaps I should remember the past first," she said, soft, "before I answer you."

He nodded, though she sensed the weight of his disappointment. "Of course. I should have waited." He reached up and stroked her hair, his touch gentle, at direct odds to his powerful presence. "I tried to find your friends, I thought maybe it might help for you to see them again. The priestess Arinna and Bishop Mattias are gone; the good Bishop died of old age three years ago, and Arinna went to Northrend to join the Argent Crusade quite some years back. I believe she's still there, training others in the way of healing. She's married now, to a paladin." He paused, his chiselled profile outlined by the faint light coming from outside the door. He glanced back at her. "The Lady Nin, I'm terribly sorry to say, died when the fiery dragon attacked Stormwind, they said it was instantaneous, that she did not suffer. When you are better, I could take you to her memorial in the royal cemetery. We can stop at the flower seller and bring flowers if you like. Anything you want, even roses. She was very good to you, gave you a bank note worth ten gold, you spent it all on books . . . "

Logan fell silent, waiting, she presumed, to see if she would remember anything. Idira tried to remember the bank note and the books, searching through the corridors of her memories, running from one deserted room to another, traversing the empty halls hoping for a glimpse of the faces that belonged to the names, or even an item which might connect her present life to the one she had lost. But everywhere she went only blank, grey rooms and stark silence greeted her.

"Nothing?" Logan asked, quiet.

Idira shook her head, ashamed. Those people had meant something to her once, yet she felt nothing for them, even the one who'd died, who had been so kind to her.

"Well, never mind for now," he said, squeezing her hand, his calluses thick and rough against her palm. "The Light must be protecting you, when the time is right you'll remember. I just hope I'm there with you when you do."

* * *

Elly hated her. There was no two ways about it. She didn't even try to hide it. Within a day of Logan's visit, Idira recovered enough to get up and wander into the kitchen. Ryback put her to work peeling potatoes, and for the next three days as she gained her strength back, she stayed in the kitchen and kept her head down, doing little undemanding jobs to earn her keep; turning the spit over the fire, washing dishes, polishing copper pans, and peeling an endless supply of vegetables.

Despite the monotony of her labour, keeping busy soothed her, distracting her from the infuriatingly tiny glimpses of her previous life that randomly surfaced, ephemeral as soap bubbles, only to disappear as quickly as they arrived, leaving her agitated and grieving though she could not say for what or whom.

Elly spent as little time as possible in the kitchen, but when she did come in out of necessity it always felt like the temperature dropped to an icy chill, even though the cook fire blazed as hot as ever.

As Idira picked up another potato to peel, she thought of Elly's last visit to the kitchen when she had talked to Ryback about her, as though she wasn't sitting right there, making demeaning comments about the shabbiness of Idira's dress until Ryback told her to shut up. And then, as though thinking about her had summoned her, Idira heard Elly's quick tread coming down the steps into the kitchen. She hunched down, trying to make herself as small as possible.

Elly swept in, her face a little flushed and her hair falling loose from its pins. She slapped her empty tray onto the big table in the middle of the kitchen, it clattered against the wood, loud, shattering the kitchen's calm. Her hands on her hips, she swaggered over to where Idira sat working through her pile of potatoes.

"Hey, _Purple_ ," Elly said from behind her, scornful. "My customers are complaining their roast vegetables still have peel on them, I told them you'd come out to apologise in person." Idira could feel Elly's hateful gaze on her, boring a hole into the back of her head.

"Leave her alone," Ryback cut in, as he sectioned a side of venison. "She peels them just fine, and well you know it."

"Shut up, Ryback," Elly snapped, "you're not the boss of me Maegan is, and she said Idira has to come out."

"Yeah probably cause you made a big scene," Ryback shot back, slamming the butcher knife into the table. He picked up a cloth and wiped his hands. "Didn't you hear what Logan said? She's been through a lot, and now you wanna kick a dog when it's down?"

"Screw Logan," Elly said, bitterness oozing from her. "This ain't no charity organisation, Maegan says either she does the work right or she's out."

"It's alright," Idira said to Ryback, uncomfortable with the direction the conversation was going. She'd promised Logan she would do her best to fit in at The Pig and Whistle and earn her keep until either she found her memories or he had enough saved up to buy a place for them to live. "I'll go. I must have made a mistake."

"See," Elly smirked, triumphant. "Come on, Purple, move it." Impatient, she pushed Idira up the stairs, making her trip on the hem of her dress so that she stumbled in front of the men standing by the bar.

"Watch yourself there," Elly said as she came up behind, all smiles for the patrons, "the steps are a little uneven. You'll get the hang of it soon enough with all the tables you'll be clearing."

"Tables?" Idira asked, confused. "I thought I was coming to—"

"Well, don't just stand there blabbering like a freak," Elly interrupted, smiling and dimpling, making a show of herself in front of the men eyeing her as she handed Idira an enormous tray from behind the bar. She pointed at a table surrounded by four young soldiers, new recruits by the look of their youthful, unscarred faces, full drunk, singing and carousing, their table overflowing with empty tankards and platters. A shove, a little rough, landed in against the small of her back, sending Idira stumbling into one of the grizzled men by the bar. He glowered and shoved her back with a curse before downing his shot.

"Go on, then," Elly simpered, looking as harmless as a butterfly. "Get to work, and don't forget to wipe the table down. Maegan don't like the tables getting all sticky." A wet dishrag, cold and sour and smelling of old ale, slapped against the side of Idira's head.

"Oops!" Elly giggled, rolling her eyes at her audience. Some of the men chuckled, lifting their shot glasses to her, indulgent. "Thought you saw that coming. Silly me."

Wiping her sleeve against the foul smell coming from her cheek, Idira knelt and picked up the stinking rag, humiliated by the sniggers of the men at the bar. She edged her way toward the group of recruits, uneasy. None of them looked to be more than nineteen. Just boys, really, she reassured herself. She could handle them. She eased her way between them, surreptitious, lifting the crockery and tankards away and loading them onto the tray sitting on the empty table beside them when one of them grabbed her wrist and yanked her towards him.

"Wouldja look at that!" he bellowed, his breath hot in her face, "Elly was right, lookit them purple eyes. A proper freak."

The others leaned forward, their movements clumsy and exaggerated by the drink. One of them knocked over a half-full tankard, and stale ale spread across the table, pungent. They laughed, falling over themselves trying to get out of the way of the drips sliding over the table's edge. Their attention fully diverted, they forgot about her.

"Ge' us a kiss," her captor demanded, yanking her closer. She tried to pull back, but he held her fast in his grip, his strength surprising her. "I wanna see what its like to kiss a freak." His face loomed in front of hers, all crooked yellow teeth and red, spotty skin. He stuck his tongue out, its surface coated with a thick, greenish fuzz, and licked his fat, moist lips. Idira gagged and closed her eyes, pressing her lips tight together, enduring the waves of nausea washing over her at the stink of him: stale sweat and urine, booze, and something else, a powerful stench of stinky cheese coming from the direction of his groin. Despite the incongruity of the timing, a sudden memory, visceral, flickered to life in her mind's eye; of a man beaten up, laying almost naked in a dimly-lit wine cellar, a leather tunic covering his groin, the same smell of stinky cheese coming from him. She lunged after the memory, grasping after its fading tendrils, desperate to hold on to it, but as quick as it came, it was gone, vanishing just like the ones which had come before, leaving behind nothing more than a grinding, nameless residue of grief.

"That'll be enough, lad."

A strong hand grasped onto her shoulder, pulling her back from the vile stench of the boy's breath. Ryback moved between them, still holding his massive butcher knife, not like a weapon, just in his hand as though he hadn't had time to set it aside.

"How about another jug of ale, boys?" He didn't wait for them to answer, he glanced back at Idira, his face might have been impassive, but his eyes were hard and flinty. "Go fetch us a jug would you?"

She scurried away, relief cascading through her as she ran behind the bar to fetch the ale, ignoring the hateful looks Elly shot at her whenever her tormenter thought no one was looking. Ryback took the ale and set it on the table. He leaned down close to the boy's face, though how he could stand the smell of him, Idira couldn't guess. "This one's on the house," he said, in a voice that brooked no argument, "then it's time to be heading on back to your barracks."

Taking Idira by the elbow, he steered her back down into the kitchen, led her to her stool, and sat her in front of the pile of unpeeled potatoes.

"You're behind on the vegetables," he said, matter-of-fact. Without saying another word, he went to the other side of the table, lifted his big, blocky knife and carried on butchering the venison, quiet, precise, angry.

* * *

Two weeks later, after a long absence and several more episodes of Elly tormenting Idira and Ryback intervening, Logan turned up on the morning of Idira's free day wearing a well-cut pair of brown leather breeches, knee-high boots and a fitted white shirt over his muscled torso, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the laces at the neck left open at his throat. He'd tied his hair back into a messy ponytail and sported a day's worth of stubble, but instead of detracting from his looks, his roguish appearance only added to his appeal.

As she finished pinning her hair up, Idira caught him leaning against the kitchen's fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest, catching up with Ryback while he waited for her to finish getting ready. She wondered for the hundredth time why she couldn't be with him, especially when he looked so terribly handsome. She went out, feeling a little shy and more than a little attracted to him. He made his farewells to Ryback and held out his arm to her, leading led her up the stairs, and out from the deserted inn, apparently oblivious to Elly's scathing, jealous glare as she polished wine glasses behind the bar.

"I thought I could show you around the city a little before going to see Lady Nin's memorial. Would you like that?" he asked as they stepped out into brilliant sunshine. Idira felt a little thrill at the thought of having so much time with him and said yes, but he didn't seem to hear. He glanced around the busy street, preoccupied and distant. Despite her own delight at the chance to explore, she sensed something was troubling him. She hoped it wasn't because of the tension with Elly, she knew Ryback had sent a message to him, warning him about what was going on, saying that he had it in hand and was watching out for her, but she wished he hadn't said anything. She didn't want Logan to think she was causing problems after all he'd done for her.

He led her on, taking her through the narrow, winding, cobbled streets of the mostly residential Old Town. _Shabby chic, very trendy_ , Logan explained as they walked, bemoaning the fact that the apartment prices in the Old Town were the most expensive in all of Stormwind, which annoyed him since its location was convenient to the barracks. But, he'd sighed, resigned, it seemed everyone who was anyone wanted to live in the suddenly popular district because Prince Anduin had taken a fancy to drinking at one of the little coffee houses nestled in one of the Old Town's many hidden courtyards. Logan rolled his eyes at that, shaking his head, muttering about the vapid vanity of the city's residents.

They pressed on, wending their way through the jangle of people hurrying about their affairs into a narrow lane, the gables of the towering three-story houses overhanging the street so much they left the lane's cobbles in perpetual shadow. Logan took her hand and shouldered his way through a tight knot of shoppers gathered around a bakery, the delicious smell of cinnamon buns wafting from its open door making Idira's mouth water. He pulled her free of the crowd and headed towards a stone-arched gateway and into a tunnel. They came out onto a pretty, tree-lined walkway alongside a canal. In the distance several stone bridges crossed to other parts of the city. For a while, Idira was content just to follow along and look at the wonders surrounding her. Since she'd arrived at the inn, she hadn't been any further than the lanes adjacent to it, and even then only briefly since she'd been sent out to run errands and told to hurry back. She pointed at a group of children fishing from a little dock in the canal, commenting on how charming everything seemed. Logan didn't say anything. She glanced up at his profile. He stared into the distance, preoccupied, far gone in his thoughts.

She touched his arm. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

He didn't answer. She tried again. He turned, his eyes still unfocussed as he looked at her. "Hmm?"

"I asked if something is troubling you," she repeated for the third time.

She knew he'd heard her that time, because his eyes cleared and for a beat his expression betrayed him; dread, worry and tension etched their way across his features before he smoothed his look and smiled at her.

"Nothing I can't manage," he answered, patting her hand, patronising.

Idira stopped. "No," she said, holding him back, "don't do that. A blind person could see something is wrong, I want to know."

Logan looked down at his feet as he considered her request. He shifted his weight, his hand sliding up to rub the back of his neck, something Idira had begun to recognise as something he did whenever he was uncertain. Despite her instincts flaring, she held her tongue, giving him time.

He nodded at a bench, set under the shade of one of the trees lining the canal. "Let's sit down then."

He waited as she took her seat, though instead of joining her, he remained standing, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked out over the city, bustling with life and colour. Vendors stood by their carts on the opposite side of the canal calling out to browsing shoppers, holding out trinkets and baubles, their gilt edges catching the light of the morning sun. The breeze picked up, carrying with it the sweet scent of roasted chestnuts mingled with the stronger alkaline smells rising up from the canal; the earthy, humid tang of the bright green algae growing along the canal's waterline mixed with the wild freshness of icy water streaming down from the mountains, racing past them towards the sea. A little way down, on the next bench, a group of young women huddled together, giggling, eyeing Logan.

"Idira," Logan began, turning his back to the murmurs of his admirers, "I have to leave. I don't think I will be able to come back."

One of the young women laughed, a little too loud. Idira got up, offended by the incongruity of the woman's timing.

"Please, let's walk," she said, needing to put some distance between herself and the women, quickly becoming a distraction as their confidence grew and their voices raised, the subject of their conversation becoming suggestive, clearly intended for Logan's ears.

Logan nodded. He steered her towards the nearest bridge. Idira could hear the women muttering in disappointment, calling him a bore. She glanced at Logan. A muscle twitched in his jaw, his face had become hard. He looked annoyed.

"Sorry about that," he murmured.

"Do you get that a lot?" Idira asked.

He shrugged, noncommittal. "Comes and goes."

On the other side of the bridge, a cart containing bushels of flowers caught Idira's attention; roses, daisies, lilies, wildflowers and thistles jumbled together, a riot of colour, beautiful, exotic. Despite what Logan had just said, Idira couldn't stop herself from gravitating towards the enticing display. She caressed the soft petals of the flowers, leaning in to drink their heavenly scent. She smiled up at him, delighted.

"I did promise you flowers for the Lady Nin," Logan said, his face losing some of its hard edges as he watched her explore. "Anything you want, and something for yourself, too."

Idira felt her heart clench. He was so good to her, this man she couldn't remember. For a heartbeat she felt an overwhelming urge to kiss him, to touch his jaw and press her lips, light against his. Her thoughts must have played out on her face, because his eyes widened a little, and he blushed. He moved away and leaned on the canal's stone wall, his arms crossed over his chest once more as he watched her, cautious.

Warmth crept up onto her cheeks, shame flooding her. She had done something wrong, but she had no idea what. At a loss, she turned back to the flower seller, a late middle-aged woman who wore her long silver hair tied up in a loose bun. A few wispy tendrils hung down, framing her still beautiful, gentle face. As she browsed, Idira eyed the woman's immaculate dark blue dress surreptitiously; the shoulders, bodice, cuffs and hem had been embroidered with colourful little flowers. Suddenly self-conscious, she looked down at her own faded blue linen dress, ashamed. She had never thought to ask where the rest of her belongings were, perhaps this dress was all she had left to her name.

"Is there anything special you are looking for?" the seller asked, her soft voice pleasing, mimicking her manner as she prepared an arrangement, her movements elegant and graceful.

Idira shook her head, suddenly too embarrassed to reply. When the flower seller returned to her work, Idira glanced around her, eyeing the other women processing along the canal, clad in fashionable, well cut dresses and pretty hairpieces decorated with feathers, ribbons and flowers. She looked down at herself again, critical, at the threadbare state of her dress, unembroidered and plain, her hair held up in nothing more than steel pins. A flush of deep humiliation saturated her. She looked poor, a transient, a beggar even. How could Logan bear to be seen with her out in public like this? More than anything she wanted to go back to the inn. Even being bullied by Elly would be better than this terrible feeling of shame, of everyone staring at her, judging her, laughing at her.

Through her haze of tumbling emotions, she became vaguely aware another client had arrived, standing behind her, pausing to browse the seller's goods. Over the scent of the myriad of flowers she could smell another new scent coming from them, a rich, deep one. The exotic scent of vetiver root suffused her senses, filled with the heady mix of sun-warmed leather and smoky earth, overlaid with spices, cedar, bergamot, lemon and violet leaf. She closed her eyes, humiliated. People even smelled expensive here.

The seller had forgotten all about her, and had turned her full attention to her new client, plucking various flowers from the buckets, while smiling and asking if they wanted the usual or should she create something new. Cringing with shame, Idira backed up, intending to slip away, back to the gritty familiarity of the inn, where everyone looked as ragged as she when her heel caught the back of her hem and she staggered, bumping into the client behind her, her head banging against the solid muscle of a man's chest. Several thick tresses of her hair slipped free from their hair pins and tumbled down over her face. A leather clad hand came to her elbow. Strong yet gentle fingers held her against him, steadying her as she stumbled on the uneven cobbles.

"There now, I've got you," the man said, his voice deep and resonating. Her heart juddered. She recognised that voice. Deep memories welled up, prodding at the edges of her mind, seeking a way in. From behind the screen of her hair, she peeked up at the tall, powerful man beside her, surveying him, grateful he couldn't see her face. Steel-grey eyes looked down at her from a face hardened by battle. A pair of diagonal scars, long healed and pale against his tanned skin sliced across his left cheek. His square jaw bore several days' worth of dark stubble, and his silver hair lay tousled over his forehead as though he had just left his bed. From above his dark blue tunic and heavy leather shoulder collar, he smiled, his tired, battle-weary features lighting up, transforming him into a breathtakingly handsome man.

A memory trickled free, a dream of her standing on a balcony in a floating city _,_ of the same piercing eyes looking down at her. Before she had time to process it, other dreams and visions of him exploded into her mind, of him on another planet, of him fighting in a battle, they washed over her, reigniting forgotten memories and thoughts; blazing through her, awakening her longing for the man on the balcony, and her realisation that her inability to love Logan was because of this man. The name arrived. It slashed, visceral, through her torso. _Khadgar_. She shivered, her body tingling, resonating in his sudden presence. He was back in Azeroth, somehow no longer trapped on another planet. He stood before her, solid. Real. Perfect. His fingers squeezed her elbow, gentle.

"A fine day to be buying flowers, don't you think?" he asked, conversational, utterly oblivious to her epiphany.

Before she could answer, more memories rushed in to replace the ones of Azeroth's hero. Violent, dark, nightmarish ones. She backed up, her hands coming to cover her face as the memories crashed into her, relentless, vicious. She shook her head, moaning. A pot-belly stove left in the yard. VanCleef tearing Myra's dress open. Benny butchered on the deck of a ship inside a black cavern. Papa attacking their house with canons, the walls and floors quaking. A little bundle of soaking black fur, trapped in the porch steps. The decimating blasts of the Legion's ships. Papa cutting her throat with a kitchen knife, trying to kill her. Demons, everywhere, surrounding her house. Her little companion, Margle hanging limp, half-eaten in a demon's claws. Her Light exploding out of her. And then, just when she thought she couldn't bear anymore, one last memory rose up, shattering all the others.

"Unambi!" she cried out, grief overwhelming her. Emptiness clawed at her, threatening to consume her. Devastated, she pulled free of Khadgar's grip and ran to Logan who caught her, holding her head pressed against his chest as she wept.

"Is she alright?" she heard Khadgar ask as he approached, genuine concern edging his voice.

She felt Logan nod, his arms tightening around her, protective. "She survived a Legion attack," he answered, grim, "but she lost all her memories afterwards. I think they just came back."

Khadgar made a quiet sound of empathy. Idira felt his fingers touch her shoulder. Despite her misery, his touch awakened something in her, something dormant, half-starved and aching with longing.

"We will prevail, they shall not have Azeroth," Khadgar murmured, his voice filled with conviction. "I wish I could do more to ease your pain than offer my condolences, but I swear, I will not rest until the Legion is driven from our world. I have sworn to fight to my death to make Azeroth safe from the demonic horde once and for all. You may consider this my personal promise to you as well."

He turned and went back to the seller, speaking in a low voice as he made his selection and completed his purchase. Idira wanted to listen to him, to drink in every detail of him, but her heart wouldn't let her. All she could think of, could feel, was the ache of loneliness for the one she had lost, the one who had given up his life to save her. Unambi.

Khadgar walked away. Idira tucked her head tighter against Logan, letting him stroke her hair as she shuddered in his arms, guilt, grief and loss threatening to overwhelm her. Thoughts, random and directionless skittered across the tatters of her mind, teetering between the shock of her awakened memories to the realisation she had finally just met the man she had been waiting her whole life to meet. She let Logan hold her, his big hand stroking the back of her head as more pieces of her life fell into place, settling into position, filling in the ugly details of her tragic life, forcing her to relive every heartbreak, every betrayal, every loss. The image of Khadgar looking down at her flashed through her mind, vivid, blotting out all her other memories. No. She shook her head, willing the image from her thoughts. Now was not the time to think of Khadgar. He could wait. One day she would see him again, she was certain of it, but right now, there was only one she cared for, one she could think of, one she still needed to grieve. Unambi.

She clung to Logan, and wept.

* * *

Late that night, after the kitchen had been closed down and silence had fallen, Idira sat, exhausted from crying beside Logan, her back against the bed's headboard, staring at the wall. He had stayed with her all through the long day, holding her, wiping away her tears and, as the day waxed into evening, trying to get her to eat and drink. Even Elly hadn't made any smart remarks when they came back into the still deserted inn, as Idira stumbled along beside Logan into the main dining room, her grief so paralysing she could barely walk.

"Before all this happened," Idira whispered, "you said something about leaving." She looked up at him, her heart aching, hoping he would change his mind and stay with her, at least for a little while.

He drew a deep breath, the material of his untucked shirt moving over the thick slabs of his pectorals. "Do you remember when I told you I had been promoted a few times in the last four years?"

Idira nodded.

"Well, I might have played things down a little. For a Westfall nobody without any connections, I have done quite alright." He brushed at his breeches, suddenly shy. "I'm actually a Commander. As it turns out I'm pretty good at being a soldier."

Idira found a faint smile for him. "I did wonder how you managed to survive so many demons all by yourself," she said.

He winced. "I wasn't going to last much longer if your Light hadn't come along, vaporising them to oblivion."

"And . . . ?" Idira prompted, despite being uncertain whether she wanted to hear the rest.

"And," he answered, careful, "I have to leave. Tomorrow."

Idira pushed away from the headboard. "So soon?"

He nodded, guilt slicing across his face. "That's why I haven't been around to visit for these past two weeks. The King has been demanding much of his military, and of me and my men in particular."

"You've met King Varian?" Idira asked, astonished, temporarily diverted from her personal miseries.

Logan nodded again, terse. "A hard man. Fair. But hard," he glanced at Idira, uneasy. "We are going to bring the fight to the Legion's stronghold, all of us, friend and foe, fighting together as one."

A stillness crept over Idira. "You said you might not come back. What did you mean by that?"

Logan's hand covered hers. He shook his head.

"No," Idira breathed. "Don't even think it, you will survive this battle. We will meet again."

"I didn't get to where I am by being fanciful," Logan said, his voice hard, just like it was the night he turned up at the farm and ordered her to leave. "What we faced in Westfall was only a taste of what awaits us at the Broken Shore. And," he hesitated, his fingers tightening around hers, "my men, elite soldiers, all of them, have been chosen to lead the assault. I told them to take the day to say their goodbyes."

Idira's heart clenched, new tears filling her eyes. She lay down on the bed and looked up at him as he gazed at her, thinking of the first day she had seen him, all gawky and awkward, how he had blushed furiously every time he had looked at her; how well he had taken care of her over the years since then; all the things he had built for her at the farm; of the day he left for Stormwind, and the awful, terrible night he came back.

"You walked all the way back to Stormwind, carrying me, wearing all that armour," she murmured, closing her eyes.

"I did, and would do it again, over and over, if it meant you would be safe," he answered. She felt the mattress shifting under his weight as he moved down beside her. She opened her eyes. He lay on his side, his arm tucked under his head, facing her. "I love you, Idira. I always have. I always will. Right to the end my heart will be yours."

"But," Idira said, soft, her heart aching, confused. "The time we kissed . . . I thought you and me . . . couldn't . . ."

He scoffed. "Yes. _That_ remains, though it makes no sense to me, since even after all this time I still love you desperately," he reached out and brushed away a stray tendril of hair from her cheek, "it's as though my heart and mind are continuously at war with the other."

Idira turned onto her side and faced him. He reached out and pulled her against him, his lips brushed against the top of her head. In his embrace she felt safe, cherished, protected.

"Let me stay and hold you while you sleep," he whispered, rough, against her hair, his throat tight with emotion, "let me have this one last night with you, the only woman in all of Azeroth I have ever loved."

Her heart folded. His earlier unequivocal confession of love replayed in her mind, he would never had admitted his feelings if he thought there was a chance he would be coming back. No, those were the words of a man saying his last goodbye, the words of a man who knew he would never come back. She wouldn't accept it, he had to live, somehow he had to make it out alive.

"Just come back to me," she whispered. "Do whatever it takes to survive."

His arms tightened around her, but he didn't answer. As she drifted to sleep, cocooned, safe in his embrace, she felt his tears, silent and soft against her brow. "I regret nothing," he whispered. "Nothing."

When she woke to the sounds of pots and pans clattering and banging against the kitchen stove, Logan was gone. Only the imprint of where his head had lain on his pillow remained. She gathered it up against her chest, clutching it against her, tight, inhaling his scent; soap and leather tinged with a hint of his perspiration, drinking in the sweet, musky smell of him, the one who had been forced to love her from a distance for all his life.

She closed her eyes and imagined him wearing his armour, his body bristling with weapons, leading his men onto one of the ships in the harbour, his face hard, his voice commanding, turning at the last moment to look back as he sailed away, thinking of her, always of her.

She rubbed her cheek against the pillow, still damp from his tears. Horns blared in the distance, loud and long. The faint sound of cheers drifted after them. Her heart lurched. He was leaving. She clutched the pillow tighter, feeling herself sliding into a yawning void, suddenly alone and lost without him.

"I love you too," Idira whispered into the pillow and pressed her face against its dampness, so her tears would mingle with his.


	16. Chapter 14

**CHAPTER 14**

* * *

A quiet knock came to the door. "Hey little lady," Ryback called, hesitant. "You alright in there? It's almost noon."

Her mouth dry and head aching, Idira dragged herself from the bed, listless. She pulled the door open and leaned against its edge. A blast of heat hit her. She eyed the fireplace, a whole pig hung on the spit, roasting, gobbets of grease dripped from its flesh, hissing and sizzling in the flames.

Ryback held up a cup, she took it. Water. She drank, grateful.

"You look terrible," he said as she handed back the empty cup. Idira didn't say anything, somehow she felt like it didn't matter what she looked like anymore. He scratched his head and looked down at the cup, turning it round in his big hands. "Um, I made up a plate of food for you, why don't you come out and eat?" He glanced behind him at the stairs leading up to the dining room. "Elly won't be bothering you no more, Maegan's told her what's what."

"And what _is_ what?" Idira asked, tired.

"Nothing," Ryback said, a little too fast. "Come on, I made your favourite today, roast asparagus and potatoes and whitescale salmon in cream sauce."

Idira glanced up at him, surprised. "Since when is fish on the menu here?" she asked, suspicious.

Ryback shuffled back a little, recoiling at her sharp tone. "Just, please, just come and eat before it gets cold. Please," he finished, suddenly self-conscious, his gaze returning to the cup in his hand. He went to the table where he had laid out a place for her; a plate, one of the good china ones, silver cutlery, a crystal wine glass half-filled with a pale white wine. He pulled out the stool and waited beside it.

A flash of guilt swept through Idira. Through her numbness, grief and despair, a tiny spark of light glimmered. Ryback felt sorry for her, and was doing the one thing he could to comfort her. She found a weak smile for him and followed him to the table, sinking down onto the stool with a murmur of thanks. She picked up her linen napkin, noticing he had prepared a beautiful plate of food for her, laid out so pretty it almost looked like art.

"It looks lovely," Idira said, quiet, as she cut into the fish, delicate cream sauce oozing out from its tender flesh. She brought the meat to her lips, sighing as the complex flavours of several rare herbs burst onto her tongue. She took her time eating, savouring every delicious bite. The last time she had eaten this well had been years ago, when VanCleef had still lived at the house in Moonbrook and the money had been pouring in.

She looked up as she sipped from the wine glass. A very good wine, robust, but light, with hints of oak, certainly not the kind of vintage that would be kept in the cellar of The Pig and Whistle. Ryback watched her surreptitiously from the stool by the fire, where he feigned a deep interest in turning the spit.

"Your talents are wasted here," Idira said, and she meant it.

He quirked a brow, a flash of pleasure showing on his face, but said nothing.

She finished the food and got up, carrying the wine glass with her to stand beside Ryback, the heat of the fire making her skin itch. "Thank you," she said.

Ryback nodded, keeping his eyes on the roasting pig. "The least I could do," he muttered, gruff. He got up. "Can you keep an eye on this for me for a minute?" he asked, glancing at the sweating carcass.

Idira nodded and took his place, turning the handle of the spit, slow, just like he'd trained her to. He went down the stairs to the cellar. A key in a lock, followed by a door creaking open, no more than a minute passed before the door slammed shut, and the key turned once more. He came back up, his boots creaking against the worn wooden planks of the staircase. He stopped in front of her and held out a crisp white envelope, sealed with a blob of gold wax, the impression of a thistle stamped upon it.

"Logan asked me to give this to you once he left for the fight at the Broken Shore," he said. His gaze flicked to hers, then away, uncomfortable. When she didn't take it right away, he gestured for her to move so he could resume his position at the spit. She got up, accepting the envelope from him as they traded places, wondering what Logan could possibly have to say in a letter after all the things he had already confided to her in the night. She went to open it, curious.

"You might be wanting to take that somewhere more private," Ryback murmured from behind her.

"You know what's inside?" Idira asked turning, surprised.

Ryback nodded. "Logan and me, we go back a bit. Used to fight alongside him when he was just starting out. Got discharged for having lied a bit on my application," he shrugged. "Well, that part don't matter. Anyway, Logan never forgot about me. It's the only real reason he kept coming here to drink you know, even after he was promoted to Commander and became way too important to be hanging out in this dump."

Idira digested this new piece of information, cautious.

"So, what's in it?"

Ryback eyed her for a beat, then turned back to the spit. Keeping his expression carefully neutral, he answered. "Your ticket out of here."

* * *

Logan had left her four-thousand-two-hundred-thirty-five gold, the incredible amount written out in florid script across a gilded banknote drawn on the Royal Bank of Stormwind. In the privacy of her room, she stared at the note, unable to comprehend the enormity of his gift.

She turned her attention to the letter he had written, tucked into the envelope behind the folded bank note. She bit her lip, hesitating, bracing herself before reading his final words, sensing he was going to break her heart all over again.

 _Idira,_

 _I have never forgotten the night the Legion came to Westfall, and what your Light did to them. I admit I went to you harbouring a long cherished hope I might live with you in an apartment of our own in Stormwind, but after I saw what you could do I knew it was a fantasy, that it would never be. Whoever you really are, and whatever power you contain is clearly meant for a very great purpose, and I think that purpose might just be to fight against the Legion._

 _Being a soldier, I don't know much about magic, but this much I can be certain of: with your Light there can only be one place for you. You must travel to Dalaran and apply to become an apprentice in the arcane school of magic presided over by the Kirin Tor. I am sure they will be thrilled to have you in their ranks. Perhaps one day, with power like yours, you might even become an Archmage, and stand alongside Khadgar and the Council of Six._

 _Anyway, I did a little asking around, and was told the application fee is four thousand gold, so there is enough here to pay your way in, plus a little left over for some nice new things to wear, and of course, some books. I know how much you like those._

 _Be well, dear, sweet Idira. As I close my eyes for the final time on those Legion infested shores, my last thoughts will be of you; your beautiful face filling my mind as I travel to the Nether to begin the long wait to start again. Perhaps in another life you will be mine. I can wait. No problem._

 _Logan_

Her throat tight, Idira stared at his final declaration of patient waiting. She pressed his letter against her heart, grief striking her afresh. "Logan," she cried out, sobbing. "Logan . . . " She crawled onto the bed still holding his letter against her chest and curled into a ball, grieving for the man who waited, stoic, on one of Stormwind's juggernauts as it raced to another shore, prepared to sacrifice his life so she and hundreds of thousands of others could continue to live.

* * *

Early the next morning, just as the sun's first rays painted the sky in glorious shades of deep pinks and dark purples, Idira stood beside Ryback near the top of Stormwind's walls, inside a wooden planked, straw covered corridor, waiting for her turn to speak to Stormwind's Gryphon Master. Her hand tucked into the crook of Ryback's arm, she glanced up at him, freshly washed and shaved, his hair combed back, wearing his Holy Day best: a blue linen shirt, starched and pressed, and a pair of brown leather breeches. He'd even gotten up early and polished his boots for the occasion.

"Now don't you be worrying about being up there on a big old gryphon," he said as he patted her hand, reassuring her as she eyed the enormous creatures, uneasy, "those are some smart beasts. They know exactly what they're doing, and those saddles, well they are about one of the most comfortable, safest things in Azeroth. Once the novelty wears off of seeing the world from up high, there's no reason not to have a nap," he chuckled, his eyes unfocusing as he reminisced, "Light knows I've done it plenty of times."

Idira nodded and smiled for him, but her heart pounded, filled with trepidation as she watched the great beasts, hybrid creatures, half-lion, half-eagle leap from the platform's opening to plummet, screeching towards the city's moat far below, their great pounding wings catching them just moments before hitting the water's surface.

"Ah, that part's the hardest to get used to," Ryback admitted, as Idira tightened her grip on his arm, fearful. "Best not to go on with a full stomach, or drunk, drunk's bad too. Nothing stays down after that. That's why I said to eat light this morning, anyway there'll be lots of delicious things to eat in Dalaran, fanciest city in all of Azeroth, only the best of the best get to live there, with all the fine things to match." He patted her hand. "It'll be ok. You'll be fine. The good news is Dalaran is a lot closer to Stormwind than it used to be because of the Legion's invasion, it's just over Karazhan now. Not so long ago, you'd have to take a ship all the way to northern continent, and _then_ a gryphon. Colder than a frost mage's nipples up there."

Idira blushed, smiling faintly at his attempt to lighten the mood. She thought of the maps folded into the front leaves of her books, how much she had loved to pore over them, imagining other lands and what it would be like to visit them. But Ryback wasn't exaggerating, she knew of Karazhan well enough from her books, the great towering fortress, long deserted, which stood within the Deadwind Pass. Once, long ago, Khadgar had studied there under the Guardian Medivh. Compared to the vast size of the Eastern Kingdoms, the Deadwind Pass was quite close, even Unambi had been there once, the time Khadgar had saved his life and—

"Wait," she blurted out, Ryback's earlier words jolting her from her thoughts, "what do you mean _over_ Karazhan?"

Ryback glanced at her, taken aback. "Dalaran is a _floating_ city. Didn't you know that?"

Idira stared at him. She didn't. The only thing she knew of Dalaran was that long ago, when she was still a child, Lady Nin had told her of how she had travelled to Dalaran, nestled in the province of Hillsbrad Foothills to buy her hats from a famous milliner. Nothing in any of Idira's books mentioned Dalaran being anywhere else, all she had read was that the city in Hillsbrad had been destroyed by Arthas during the Third War. Since coming to Stormwind, she understood that Dalaran had been rebuilt, but as a floating city? She shivered as the scattered pieces of her life gathered together, assembling quietly around her dream from all those years ago. She touched her pouch, containing the precious bank note and Logan's letter. Of all the people who could have opened the way for her, it was the man who loved her who had given her the money so she could go to the very place where she would finally come face to face with Khadgar. Unambi was right, the Light did move in mysterious ways.

"Are there . . . balconies in Dalaran?" she asked, hesitant.

For a beat, Ryback stared at her as though she had lost her mind. "I suspect so," he finally answered, slow, "since it's all towers and spires." He scratched his head, baffled. "That's a very strange thing to be asking. Are you afraid of balconies or something?"

Idira shook her head, but didn't have time to say anything more. Her turn had arrived.

* * *

It was worse than she feared, the drop down to the moat. With barely a chance to say goodbye to Ryback, the gryphon galloped to the edge of the wooden platform and fell, screeching with joy down to the moat, its powerful wings pumping, beating hard against the shear of air rushing up past them, catching their fall just as its talons brushed against the moat's cold, dark, murky waters.

Up they went, the transition from falling to rising so abrupt, Idira barely had enough time to get the disposable linen vomit bag the gryphon master had tucked into one of the leather restraints to her mouth. Surging waves of nausea crashed over her, so powerful her vision narrowed to little points of light. She hung over the bag, sagging in the grip of the restraints, emptying the bitter contents of her stomach, the sharp stink of bile making her continue to retch long after she'd finished. _Don't you be puking on my gryphon, that's just disrespectful,_ the Gryphon Master had warned her as he tightened the restraints holding her, trembling and quaking with terror in the saddle.

She finally finished. With shaking hands, she tied off the stinking bag and settled it into the leather satchel hanging from the saddle for later disposal. All she had eaten for breakfast was half an unbuttered toasted roll, but it seemed even that was too much. Next time, she vowed, if there ever would be a next time, she wouldn't eat for hours beforehand.

As the gryphon lifted into the air, ascending towards the clouds, cold, fresh air blew into her face, reviving her. She turned and looked back at Stormwind as it fell away. The city lay in diverse, compact sections divided by canals. In the distance, to the north, the palace loomed high up against the mountains, its spires and turrets gleaming in the early morning sunlight. Further out, the harbour lay packed with ships: juggernauts, trade ships and ferry boats jostling for space at the massive docks. The bright glint of metal winked back from along the docks' wooden platforms as the sun's first rays reflected against the armour of thousands of soldiers waiting for their turn to board one of the ships, ready to make their way to the shores of the Broken Isles.

Her heart suddenly heavy, Idira turned from the sight to face forward, her hand once more straying to touch the pouch where Logan's letter lay, nestled safe within, tormented by the knowledge he had stood on those very docks just yesterday morning. She wondered where he was now, if he had reached the muster point off the coast of the Broken Shore; waiting for the others to arrive so they could begin the battle he knew would cost him his life.

She thought she had cried every tear she left to cry in the last two days, but it seemed she still had more. Despite the enticing blur of trees, rivers, roads, villages and lakes sweeping away beneath her feet, she grieved again for Logan and Unambi as she flew alone among the skies and clouds, weeping until the impossible floating city of Dalaran appeared on the horizon, emerging from between the parting clouds, the sight of it astonishing her so much, she could only stare, hiccupping and dumbfounded as her gryphon wheeled, screeching, towards it.

Even from a distance it looked enormous. Dalaran was at least the size of Stormwind, if not bigger. Despite its impossible size and weight, the city hung suspended and still in the sky, perched on a vast rocky platform which looked like it had been pulled up from out of the ground along with the city, an inverted mountain that tapered down to a jagged point far below the city's foundations. Above, the entire city seemed comprised of slim, silvery white towers of various heights topped by colourful spires, their filial points tiled in varying shades of blue and purple, the whole of it looking like an elaborate confection. The gryphon tilted to its side, homing in for its approach to the landing, a massive circular platform tiled in an intricate white and blue mandala. Apart from the opening where the gryphons departed and landed, the rest of the platform lay surrounded by gardens. As they neared, the delicate golden spirals and filigrees decorating the largest towers glinted in the sun's morning light, temporarily blinding her.

As the gryphon descended towards the platform, she glimpsed the city's wide avenues and lanes, lined by luxuriant, verdant trees and gardens. It was the most beautiful place she had ever seen, nothing in her fairytale books, written or illustrated had even come close to describing the breathtaking contrast of Dalaran's fragile beauty and grandeur.

The gryphon sailed in for its landing, hitting the ground at a run. It came to a stop just heartbeats before the edge of the gardens. It turned and walked, docile to the Gryphon Master, throwing its head up and down, trilling with pleasure.

"Whoa there girl, you're in a good mood today," the Master remarked to the gryphon as he caught hold of Idira's stirrup and led the gryphon to the side, to rest with the others. Unlike the roughly dressed gryphon master in Stormwind, this man wore an elaborate blue tunic and fitted trousers edged with silver piping. Embroidered in silver thread upon the breast of his tunic he wore the sigil of the Kirin Tor, the stylised image of an eye, with three long points descending from it, the middle the longest, flanked by two shorter ones. He looked up at Idira, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She met his eyes for the barest of moments before he paled and looked away. Clearing his throat he lowered his head and busied himself with unfastening the straps of her restraints.

"Is something the matter," Idira asked, dabbing her sleeve against her mouth, trying to be discreet. "I was sick on the way," she whispered to him, mortified. "Please tell me I haven't arrived with sick on my face."

"No, you're all right there, Miss," he answered, ducking under the gryphon to unfasten the restraints around Idira's other leg, his fingers working so fast, the straps fell down and slapped against the gryphon's flanks, startling the creature.

Idira glanced down at her threadbare dress, smoothing her hands over it, inspecting it. It was still clean. She looked back at the Master again, perplexed, hoping he might enlighten her, but he turned away, moving to catch the next gryphon, smiling up at its rider, all charm and conversation.

At a loss what to do, Idira waited for him to come back and help her down, watching as he hurried to assist the other woman, who looked no more than a few years older than Idira. The woman sat in her saddle, erect and regal, dressed in a very expensive, well-cut burgundy gown, reminding Idira of the quiet wealth of Lady Nin. Dark-haired and square-jawed, her thin face made her cheekbones stand out, proud and elegant. Her eyebrows curved, perfectly arched above her dark blue eyes framed, by long, thick lashes. She looked beautiful and dangerous, reminding Idira of a viper. The corners of the woman's lips curved downward as she looked around the landing, her expression seething with disdain.

"Look at all this riff-raff exploiting the situation, seeking a quick path to fame, wealth and glory," she said, her tone arch and dripping with condescension. "How I wish I had the power to grant you to keep them from entering our fair streets."

Boisterous laughter rose up from the gardens. Her face twisting with distaste, she turned in her saddle and glared at a group of young men and women lounging on the grass, eating apples from one of the trees. One of the men tossed his apple into the bushes, half-eaten. She made a sound of outrage. "You see? How dare they litter? Modera has tried, by the Light she has tried," she sighed, rolling her eyes, "to convince Khadgar of the need to keep to our previous standards and only permit applicants from good, decent, established families. But you know what he's like, all equality and the greater need must preside over protocol in these dire times blah blah blah." She lifted her fingers to her lips, yawning with mock boredom.

"Huh, if only," the Gryphon Master grunted as he unfastened the last strap, freeing the woman's ankle. He leaned closer, lowering his voice, though Idira could still hear him. "One came in just before you, all raggedy and rough, with the strangest eyes I've ever seen. Purple, gave me the creeps. Then, she comes right out and tells me she threw up and wondered if she had any on her face, asking _me_ , the Head Gryphon Master of the Kirin Tor such a question."

The woman scoffed, shaking her head, reaching out, dainty, to accept his assistance as she dismounted. "Khadgar goes too far, he will regret this one day, mark my words, the Kirin Tor is no place for gutter trash and nobodies."

The Gryphon Master bowed low as she swept away, the subtle scent of jasmine wafting behind her, washing over Idira, screaming of wealth. He turned away and caught the next arrival, guiding the new gryphon further down the line. Idira sighed, realising he had long forgotten about her, the so-called gutter trash. Clutching onto the saddle, she lifted her leg over the pommel and slid down, praying the gryphon wouldn't step on her, or worse, bite her.

But it didn't seem interested in her at all. As soon as she left, it began to preen its wing feathers, cooing softly to itself.

* * *

Once in the city, Idira experienced another paralysing spike of shame. She had thought the men and women she had seen shopping along the canal in Stormwind had looked well off, but this city's residents made Stormwind's prosperous citizens look like paupers by comparison. Now she understood what Nin meant about making the trip to Dalaran to buy her hats from a famous milliner.

Within a glass-fronted shop, its interior finished in luxurious fabrics and sumptuous colours, Idira glimpsed an elegant group of three slender, beautiful women reclining on pale sofas, holding crystal-cut glasses filled with sparkling wine. They nodded and chatted amongst themselves as liveried attendants carried out fantastic gem-encrusted gowns, holding them out for their inspection.

One of the women glanced out the window, catching Idira watching them. She said something, tilting her head at Idira. The others turned and eyed her, hostile, bristling with indignation. An attendant moved to the open door and closed it, his expression dripping with contempt. Idira backed away, drowning in humiliation, trying and failing to blend into the crowded street, realising as she searched the faces for others like her that she was utterly alone, at least on this street. Everywhere she looked, beauty and wealth surrounded her, down to the smallest detail, even the potted palm trees lining the street were perfectly tended.

The deeper she went into the city, the more she became convinced only the most elite and privileged of Azeroth could afford to be in Dalaran; the families of kings and princes, the highest nobility, the wealthy barons of war and titans of commerce. She didn't belong in such a place. She stopped and half-turned, thinking to go back to the Gryphon Master to fly back to Stormwind. She could go back to The Pig and Whistle, it wasn't much of a life, but at least she wouldn't be alone, she would have Ryback, and she could earn her keep. Maegan had said there would always be a place for her there, should she want one.

Her hand drifted to her pouch, a stab of guilt puncturing through her insecurities. No. It was Logan's wish for her to do this, she had to at least try. She looked around, searching over the heads of the people strolling along the avenue and found a guard. Steeling herself for another derisive dismissal, she approached him and asked where she might apply to join the Kirin Tor. He didn't say anything cruel, but neither die he say anything at all, he simply ignored her, as did the other two guards she found. She tried very hard not to take it personally, but it wasn't easy.

* * *

Several wrong turns later and after losing herself in a garden maze for almost an hour, she discovered, quite by accident, a low, discreet opening at the base of an enormous citadel. Despite the steady flow of fashionable people moving up and down its vast, ostentatious staircase, no one seemed interested in the little patch of grass where Idira stood, tucked away behind the street, accessed by a narrow grassy alley. She leaned back, looking up at the citadel. Over its main entrance the magical sigil of the Kirin Tor, an eye with three pointed lines descending from it hung suspended, glowing a cerulean blue and pulsing with arcane energy. She shivered, sensing the power that the citadel contained, for a heartbeat temporarily diverted from her own misery as her body resonated to the steady pulse of the Eye.

Tearing her gaze from the sigil, she leaned back a little more. The citadel towered so high its topmost turrets disappeared into the clouds. She realised as she returned her attention to her immediate surroundings that for the first time since she had arrived (apart from a few times in the maze, but they hardly counted, since she had been lost in vegetation, hardly the same as being on the street), she was completely alone. Here in this quiet corner of Dalaran, no imperious, disdainful guards stood in front of the low opening in the wall. Considering all the places she _had_ seen them standing, beside a post box, outside an pet menagerie, even flanking the entrance to a barber shop for Light's sake, she was surprised not to find any here in front of a dark, suspicious looking, musty staircase leading down into the bowels of the city. It seemed as if by their absence they were sending a message: _This place is beneath us._ Despite herself, she smiled at the pun.

She leaned in and peered down the stone stairs towards the shadowy, torchlit depths. Old cobwebs clung to the edges of the opening, drifting lazily in the draught. The stairs looked like they hadn't been cleaned in years; burnt-out butts of cigars and empty tankards littered the way, while other unnameable things lurked in the corners.

Voices drifted up, reminding her of the background hum of The Pig and Whistle. Familiar smells of roast meat, wood smoke, and stale ale wafted past, caught in the flow of stagnant air rising up from below. She wrinkled her nose as the stink of old urine found its way to her nostrils through the miasma. Curious, she followed the stairs, hoping she wasn't about to walk into a place filled with men like Papa. The stairs ended, giving way to a long stone walkway. Ahead, the light brightened, and the smell of roasting meat grew stronger, overwhelming another new stench, of dampness and rot. The voices grew louder, there, the clank of crockery, and then, the thud of tankards against tables. She turned a corner and found herself staring face to face with the very goblin who had taken all the things from VanCleef's house, still wearing that ridiculous top hat. Before she could stop herself, she slapped his face, hard.

"What in the Light!?" the goblin burst out utterly taken aback. He rubbed his gold-encrusted fingers against his jaw, eyeing her, cautious. "What did I ever do to you?"

"You! You fiend! You took my clothes, and my books," Idira hollered, his sudden, unexpected presence triggering a dormant rage and resentment she hadn't known she still harboured, her anger so fierce, it felt as if it she was once more a little girl, watching her things being loaded up into a wagon as he rubbed his hands together in glee. She raised her hand to hit him again, "You took everything we had, and for a pittance, too. You left us with nothing!"

Someone caught her, holding her wrist in a viselike grip. She spun around, furious.

"Easy, there," a woman said, quiet, from behind the concealing depths of a dark hood. "You don't want to be attracting the wrong kind of attention in this place. Come on, let's get you a drink."

Still holding Idira by the wrist, the woman fished in her leather tunic and tossed a gold piece at the offended goblin. "This ends here, Kuzzik," she said, cold. "I know what you're like, you probably had that coming."

"Huh," Kuzzik scoffed, eyeing the woman narrowly. He bit the coin, then tucked it into his brocade waistcoat. "Fine, I'll let it go," he huffed, "but if it happens again." He narrowed his eyes at Idira, menacing.

The woman walked past him, "Yeah, yeah, big man. Whatever."

Kuzzik spluttered, outraged. The woman beside Idira chuckled as she wended her way into the bar area of a ramshackle wooden tavern, all crooked angles and edges, her hand still holding Idira fast against her. "He hates to be called that," she said as she nodded at the blond-haired barkeep, leaning against the wall behind the bar, his muscled arms crossed over his red-shirted chest. "Two ales, Baxter, and clean tankards this time, eh?"

"Clean ones cost extra," muttered Baxter, as he pushed away from the wall, surly.

Another gold coin appeared from the woman's tunic, she slid it across the top of the bar. He eyed it, then scooped it up, pocketing it. "I'll bring 'em to ya," he muttered, "gonna have ta boil up some water first ta wash 'em, so hope ya ain't in no hurry."

The woman shrugged as though she didn't care and led Idira further into the tavern, where the light was thinner and the air lay blue and ripe, blanketed in greasy, curling trails of old cigar smoke. Her hooded companion ducked into a shadowed alcove and settled onto a stool. Dragging another stool over with her heel, she put her feet up, crossing them at the ankles and leaned back against the wall, her arms folded over her chest. She nodded at the other empty stools surrounding the table, indicating Idira should choose one and take a seat. Not knowing what else to do, Idira sat down onto the stool nearest to the door, gingerly, hoping she wasn't sitting on anything that would stain her dress. Eyeing the table's surface layered in sticky tankard rings and grease stains, she decided to keep her hands in her lap.

"What brings you to Dalaran?" the woman asked as she dug inside her tunic and pulled out a small pouch, her fingers dipping in to retrieve a bag of tobacco and some rolling papers. She busied herself with making a roll-up, her fingers slim, elegant and deft, nothing like Idira had expected after having felt the strength of the other woman's grip around her wrist.

"Um," Idira temporised as she watched the woman work, fascinated, "just wanted to see it, I guess."

"Right," the woman said as she leant towards the candle in the middle of the table and lit her cigarette. The paper at the end flared up, bright red as she dragged on it, lighting the tobacco, making her dark eyes gleam, like a cat's. She leaned back and exhaled. "If you say so." Smoke curled up out from under her hood. She sat there, saying nothing, just looking at Idira, unnerving her.

Idira looked away, uncomfortable, wondering what she was going to have to say or do to get away from her new 'friend'. Even though the tavern was almost empty, the few who were there looked like the kind of people VanCleef used to hire, mercenaries and criminals; their faces scarred and rough, all hard edges and brutality. Dalaran was turning out to be a much stranger, more complicated place than she first perceived.

Baxter turned up with their drinks. He slid them onto the table, careless, ale sloshing over the tankards' brims, and walked away without saying a word.

The woman leaned forward and pulled her tankard closer. She gestured at Idira's beverage. "Drink up, you're going to need it if you're going to survive this place."

"Oh, yes, thank you," Idira said, polite and sipped at her ale. It was quite good, she looked up in surprise.

Her companion scoffed and waved her hand in the direction of the ceiling, trails of smoke drifting after her cigarette. "It's the magic in this place, makes everything taste better, even this pig's piss Baxter likes to call ale." After several minutes of quiet drinking, the woman stubbed out her cigarette on the heel of her boot. "You planning on applying to join the Kirin Tor?" she asked, tossing the butt into the shadows behind her.

The ale was making Idira feel better, more confident and positive. She nodded. "I'm going to try, anyway."

"Well, good luck to you," the woman said, sour, as she lifted her tankard in a mock toast, "the first trick is to find the office where you apply. Lots of politics here, Dalaran stinks to the skies with hierarchy. Since the spoiled brats don't know anything about the real world, they like to play their little games—the social inbreeds—making it as difficult as possible for the 'outsiders' to get in. Of course if you are one of the 'in crowd', you get a nice gold-gilt card sent to you telling you exactly where you need to go, with a nice little map and everything." She tilted her head at Idira's half-empty tankard. "When you finish your drink, I'll walk you there."

"Oh, I don't want to trouble you," Idira demurred, wondering how her companion knew about the gold-gilt cards, "I'm sure I can find it on my own, eventually."

"You won't," the woman said, "trust me. They do this on purpose, the bastards."

"How much do you want for it?" Idira asked, hesitant. She'd lived long enough with VanCleef to know people who frequented places like this never did anything for nothing.

"This one's on me," the woman said, "it will give me a kick to piss them off. And I know _you_ especially are going to wind them right up."

"Me?" Idira asked, offended. "Why would you say that? You don't know anything about me."

"I know plenty," the woman said as she pulled back her hood and leaned closer to the candle.

"No, it can't be," Idira breathed, feeling something grind to a halt inside her as the combined features of Myra and the dark colouring of VanCleef looked back at her from a face six years younger than her own. She stood up, panicking, fearing the ale had been laced with hallucinogenic herbs. "No. You're dead," she said, her voice rising, feeling herself begin to gibber. "You died four years ago. I grieved for you. The dead don't come back to life, not even here, in _magical_ Dalaran. No. You don't exist. I'm imagining you."

The woman, who looked exactly like she remembered Vanessa from the last time she had seen her, stood up and grabbed hold of Idira's arm, giving her a hard shake. "Stop your nonsense. As you can see, I'm very much alive. I faked my death. Sit down and shut up," she ordered, sharp, glancing around the room, "people are looking."

Idira sank back down onto the stool, staring at Vanessa, fighting a sudden incomprehensible urge to cry.

"Listen, the stories you heard, none of them are true," Vanessa said as she sat back down, drumming her fingertips on the table, agitated. "When I knew I couldn't win, I drank a potion, saying I was ending my own life to throw them off, but really I just went into a deep state of unconsciousness for about a day, one heartbeat a minute sort of thing. Pretty risky, since a drop too much means you're a goner. Gave me a headache that took a week to wear off." She shook her head, the drumming stopping as she winced at the memory. "Never going to do _that_ again."

Idira stared at her niece, an upwelling of anger slamming into her, overwhelming her panic and grief. "You let me believe you were dead," she seethed. "All this time, you never contacted me. You left me believing you were gone to the Light. Why?"

"You wouldn't understand," Vanessa sighed as she pulled out her pouch and tapped a little tobacco onto a rolling paper and rolled a new cigarette.

"Try me."

"Alright," Vanessa said as she lit the roll-up. She inhaled, deep, before continuing, smoke drifting out of her mouth as she talked. "At the time it seemed for the best. If you didn't know I was alive you wouldn't be implicated if I was ever found. I did it to protect you."

Idira scoffed, waving a hand in front of her face, to fan the smoke away. "I see you've inherited your father's warped sense of logic."

"I knew you wouldn't understand," Vanessa said, cold.

"Whatever," Idira said, folding her arms over her chest, looking away, new raw feelings of betrayal rising up in the wake of her anger. "I taught you to read and write," she grated, her throat aching, "I took care of you, I was practically your mother. You should have told me."

She glanced at Vanessa, and caught the look of guilt slicing across her face.

"I know," Vanessa said, as she took another long drag from her cigarette. "I hated what I had to do to you, but it's done now. As it turns out my fortunes have changed for the better, and with what's happening with the Legion everyone has long forgotten about little old me. For what it's worth I was bloody thrilled to see you walking down those stairs. I also enjoyed seeing you giving Kuzzik what's what. He's scum, through and through. Now we can sit here and commiserate about what I did or didn't do, or we can be on our way and get you into the Kirin Tor, your choice."

Idira stood up, bridling at her niece's cold logic. "You sound just like your father," she muttered, annoyed.

Vanessa arched an eyebrow but said nothing. She led the way out of the tavern and back up the stairs into the fresh air and sunlight. "You need four thousand gold to get in," she murmured as they walked across the grass to the alley leading back onto the street. "Do you have it?"

"Yes, Logan gave it to me," Idira answered, quiet, her heart aching anew at the thought of him.

Vanessa nodded, a look of approval crossing her face as she slid her hood back up over her head.

"I _knew_ I did the right thing letting that one live."

* * *

Vanessa hadn't lied, Idira would never have found the place. They walked for a long time, leaving behind the bustling streets of shoppers, past the vast campus of the Academy, through an enormous park encircling a brilliant blue lake, and down into a maze of residential avenues, crammed with elaborate apartments sporting long, narrow iron-wrought balconies, high windows, and open double doors offering tantalising glimpses of the opulent wealth hidden within.

At the end of a narrow lane a tiny park nestled , more of a garden, filled with flowering bushes and a little circular path that led to a small burbling fountain in the middle. Behind it, a solid wall of stone loomed overhead, several stories high.

Idira glanced at her niece, annoyed. Her feet hurt and the feeling of fullness the ale had given her had long since worn off, leaving her hungry and irritable. There was nothing here. It was a dead end. She waited for her niece to realise her error and turn back. Instead, Vanessa continued to move forward, straight towards the wall and a cluster of bushes, their branches slim and light, sweeping down to the ground, filled with luxuriant, wide leaves. Vanessa pushed aside the curtain of weeping branches and to Idira's utter astonishment she discovered a small, neat staircase leading down to a wrought-iron gate set into the wall.

Vanessa caught her astonished look. "Told you they made it difficult," she muttered. "Though it wasn't always like this. When the city was still up in Northrend, they had a sign-posted office just outside the Academy's gates. They only moved to this place once Dalaran came down here and they were overwhelmed with 'undesirable' applicants."

"But when this place is so hard to find how can anyone like me ever apply?" Idira asked, thinking of the complaints the woman had made on the gryphon landing, behaving as though the unwanted applicants were still getting in to the Kirin Tor.

Vanessa smiled. "I was lucky, coming across their little map. I started out solo, but now I have four others working for me. They hang out in the city waiting for opportunities to arise." She chuckled, smug. "And these days there are plenty. Business is booming." She swept her hand towards the steps. "Shall we?"

Idira went down the steps and pushed on the latch of the iron gate, half expecting it to be locked. It wasn't. The gate swung open, silent and smooth. They emerged out into brilliant sunshine, onto a little stone courtyard lined with benches surrounded by a low wall no higher than Idira's knees. She went to the edge and looked down, curious. The sky fell away beneath her, the gulf of space separating her from the real world below—obscured under a veil of scudding clouds—giving her a brutal dose of vertigo. She staggered back from the edge into the middle of the courtyard, her legs turning to jelly.

"Yeah, the first time's shock," Vanessa said as she went to the little border wall and lifted her foot up onto it, leaning down to look at the empty expanse, her easy confidence terrifying Idira. She glanced back, sweeping her arm out into the air. "No wind here, bet you didn't notice that. It should be blowing like storm at sea at this height. But no, nice and calm. Good old Dalaran magic." Vanessa reached into her tunic, pulled out her tobacco pouch and began to roll a cigarette on her leather-clad thigh. She jerked her head to the side. "The door's just there behind you. Since there's no one out here waiting, it looks like you're next."

Idira turned and saw the door set into the wall, plain, discreet and unassuming. It looked like nothing more than a door to a storeroom. She went to it and pushed it open, hoping she wasn't interrupting anything. Inside, the stone-walled space was clean, though dimly lit. The arches of its low roof reminded Idira of the crypts she had seen in her illustrated fairytale books, but as her gaze swept over the room, she realised there were no dead here, nor had there ever been. It was just an empty space that had been converted into a temporary office. At the far end of the room, separated by thick, luxurious rugs, a dark-haired woman sat at an ornate desk, writing in a notebook. She looked up as Idira entered, her welcoming smile immediately fading from her lips.

Idira took a step back, apprehensive, recognising the woman as the same one who had been speaking to the Gryphon Master.

"You are not the one I was expecting," the woman said, cold. "What are you doing here?"

Idira stepped towards her hesitant. "I have come to apply to join the Kirin Tor."

The woman sat back and folded her arms over her chest, her eyes roaming over Idira's faded, old dress. "Have you indeed?" she asked, arch.

Idira moved closer, reaching into her pouch. She pulled out the bank note from Logan. "I have the gold," she held the paper out to the woman, ashamed by how her hand trembled.

The woman took the bank note and looked it over, suspicious. "How did you get all this? Someone like you?"

Idira blinked, taken aback. Surely if she had the money, its provenance was none of the other woman's business. The woman, waited, hostile, glaring at her, holding the bank note pinched between her thumb and forefinger as though it were dirty.

"One of the Commanders of the Elite Forces who is leading the assault on the Broken Shore left it to me," Idira answered, feeling her face begin to heat up, embarrassed to have to share her personal business with such a woman as she. "His parting wish was for me to join the Kirin Tor. I could show you his letter, but it's . . . personal."

The dark-haired woman raised an eyebrow, cynical. "So you were his lover. Typical."

Idira stared at the woman, astonished. "I was not. I have known him for almost all my life. He was like a brother to me." She reached out and took the bank note back. "I don't understand what this has to do with my application."

"It has nothing to do with it," the woman scoffed, "I was merely curious. People like you fascinate me, like watching animals in a menagerie."

Completely at a loss, Idira didn't know what to say. The woman looked back down at her ledger and waved her slim, ringed fingers at the door. "You application is denied, you may leave."

"But," Idira said as she looked back down at the bank note, perplexed, "I have enough money, four thousand gold. I have it right here."

The woman continued writing in what Idira now realised was a ledger. " _That_ amount is for those the Kirin Tor wishes to have in its ranks. For those like you, the amount is five thousand, and as you can see, your _Commander_ is a little short." She said Logan's title without even trying to hide her derision, as though she couldn't accept someone like Idira could know a Commander of Stormwind's Elite Forces. She glanced up, impatient. "Now please leave, you're blocking the light."

Idira backed away, drowning in humiliation. The woman turned her attention back to her ledger, completely ignoring her. Idira pushed back out into the sunshine, where Vanessa was just stubbing out her cigarette, her hood thrown back. She tossed the butt over the side, watching it tumble away, a strange look of longing on her face. Idira moved closer, Vanessa turned, her forlorn expression melting into one of cool arrogance. She jerked her head at the half-open door. "That was fast. Even to them, money talks, eh?"

Idira sank down onto one of the benches, too stunned and humiliated by what had just happened to answer.

"Hey, what's going on?" Vanessa asked, turning to Idira. "What happened in there?"

When Idira didn't answer, her niece's fingers drifted to the hilts of her daggers, her eyes slid to the door, narrowing into dangerous slits. "Did someone disrespect you?"

Alarmed, Idira stood up. "I don't have enough money, so they denied me." She shrugged her shoulders as though she didn't care, desperate to lighten the mood.

Vanessa screwed her face up, disbelieving. "What are you talking about? It's four thousand, always has been."

"Well I guess they changed the rules. For people like me, it's five thousand."

"What do you mean _people like you_?" Vanessa erupted, furious. "You were bloody raised by Edwin VanCleef, the man who rebuilt their precious city of Stormwind, or have they forgotten?"

"I don't think it's a good idea for me to mention him," Idira murmured, shrinking back against rising heat of Vanessa's temper. "Not everyone feels the same about him being a hero."

"Bloody ungrateful bastards!" Vanessa spat, stalking back and forth across the courtyard, her feline grace reminding Idira so much of VanCleef she felt like she was looking at a smaller, slimmer version of him.

"Never mind, if money's the only thing holding you back, I can fix that," Vanessa erupted, storming back to the gate and pulling her hood back into place. She flung the gate open. "Come on. Let's go to the bank."

* * *

They came back an hour later, with a bank note made out to the Kirin Tor for five thousand gold, the difference from Logan's note made up from Vanessa's substantial savings. Idira went back in to the shadowy room, thinking only of fulfilling Logan's wish. If it hadn't been for him, she never would have gone back.

The woman glanced up from a book she had been reading. "You again?" she asked, her tone dripping with disdain.

Idira didn't wait, she could hear the sharp staccato of Vanessa's boots moving back and forth across the flagged stones of the courtyard, primed to take matters into her own hands should Idira's application fail a second time. She walked straight up to the desk and lay the bank note on top of the ledger.

The woman looked down at the bank note, drawn on Dalaran's Merchant Bank. She picked it up and examined it, her upper lip curving in distaste. She scoffed and flung it to the side.

"Name?" she asked without looking up, her demeanour so frosty, Idira sensed the temperature in the room dropping.

"Idira Northshire," Idira answered, her heart trembling with hope as she watched the woman write her name into the ledger.

"What are your abilities?" she snapped, terse as she dipped her quill into a silver and gold ink pot.

"I can kill demons, I have this Light inside of me? I stopped an invasion," Idira whispered, looking down at her feet.

"Of course you did," the woman scoffed, condescending. "They'll say anything these days," she muttered to herself. Idira watched what she wrote beside her name. _Can conjure butterflies._

"I can't—"

"Names of parents," the woman demanded, her eyes fixed on the ledger.

"Jac and Marian Northshire," Idira answered after a moment's hesitation, suddenly fearing the woman would know her father's notorious name. She bit her lip, fretting, watching the woman write in the names. She spelled her father's name Jak. A wave of relief washed over Idira.

"Age?"

"Twenty-six."

The woman set her quill back into its gilt holder and crossed her arms over her chest, annoyance emanating from her as looked Idira over. "Your eyes are violet," she said, matter-of-fact, almost indifferent.

"Is that usual for mages?" Idira asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Not at all," the woman answered, closing the ledger and handing Idira a crisp white card, lettered in silver runes and gilt in gold. "Show this to the guards at the entrance of the Academy. They will take you were you need to be."

"Thank you," Idira said, as a tremor of happiness washed over her. Logan would be so pleased.

"We'll see how thankful you are in a week's time," the woman snapped, disdainful, as she picked up her book and waved her fingers at the door.

* * *

On the way to the Academy, Vanessa bought Idira lunch from a little sandwich shop. Carrying the wrapped parcels in a small paper bag, she led Idira into the park and to a bench by the impossibly blue waters of the lake, sparkling in the light of the afternoon sun.

As they sat, Vanessa reached into her tunic and handed Idira a small leather purse, containing fifteen gold pieces and a bank note for two hundred and twenty gold, made out in Idira's name. "The leftover money from Logan," she said as opened the wrapper around her lunch and bit into a fat bagel stuffed with thin layers of braised steak.

Idira raised her brow as she looked at the bank note and the gold pieces, surprised, she hadn't expected that. "Thank you," she said tucking the purse into her pouch. "When did you—"

"When I said I needed to use the facilities," Vanessa shrugged, her mouth half-full. "I lied." She eyed Idira's dress. "You really need to replace that, it's falling to bits. We can stop somewhere I know on the way if you like."

"Okay," Idira said, biting into her own sandwich; smoked whitefish salmon with grainy mustard on rye. It was delicious. She sighed with delight.

"That's genuine, good food right there, nothing to do with magic," Vanessa said around the bite in her mouth. "The Bagel Brothers make the best sandwiches anywhere, nothing can beat them."

They finished their lunch in companionable silence, and while Vanessa rolled a fresh cigarette, Idira ventured to the water's edge and trailed her fingers in the lake's crystal clear waters, feeling for the first time in a long while a tiny tremor of happiness ripple through her. She looked up at the silvery white towers surrounding the park, the tallest one, rising above the rest, resplendent and imposing, caught her eye. As they had eaten, Vanessa told her that particular tower was called the Violet Citadel and was where the most powerful archmages leading the Kirin Tor, called the Council of Six could be found.

Idira hadn't said anything at the time, grateful for the excuse of having had a mouth full of food, but in her heart she felt a stirring, an awakening, of her purpose becoming clearer, and her path opening up before her. She watched as her fingers moved through the waters, distorting the reflection of the Violet Citadel, shimmering in the sunlight, thinking of the man who had touched her shoulder and caught her elbow, saying he had her. _All my life I have waited for you,_ she thought, looking up at the Citadel. _Soon now, somehow, some way, I will stand with you on a balcony and you will look at me and see me. And then, maybe my life will finally begin to make sense._

Vanessa called to her, waving her arm, gesturing for her to join her, impatient. Idira backed away from the lake and went to her niece, reluctant, wishing they didn't have to leave so soon. As they departed she looked back one last time, just as an enormous black raven landed where she had stood on the lake's shore. It lowered its head to drink from the waters before surging back up into the skies, breathtaking and graceful, soaring away until it vanished into the pure, white light of the sun.


	17. Chapter 15

**CHAPTER 15**

* * *

Double checking the gilt card listing the tower, floor and room number of her accommodation, Idira turned the key in the lock of the blue door and walked into her dormitory room. Apart from two narrow beds with bare mattresses on plain wooden frames, a pair of bedside cabinets and two slim wardrobes standing just inside the entrance, the room was completely empty; no rugs, no curtains, no paintings on the wall. Above the bedside cabinets, a high, thin window stretched up to the cornice, tapering to a point. Idira wrinkled her nose, the walls must have recently been painted; the acrid tang of resin still lingered, faint in the air.

The furnishings had been laid out in the small rectangular room in perfect symmetry, one side a mirror image of the other. Setting aside the box containing her new dress, a fine linen the same colour as her eyes, she sank down on one of the beds' mattresses and looked around, shivering a little in the room's oppressive austerity. After the endless opulence she had observed as she followed the guard through the Academy's campus to the dormitories, she rather thought her living circumstances would be a little more luxurious and colourful. But no, it seemed for the apprentices at least, no such comforts would be provided. She leaned over the bedside cabinet, set under the ledge of the window, to find herself looking down a sheer drop from an incomprehensible height. She pulled back, trembling with vertigo. A female's soft laughter came from the open doorway.

"It takes ages to get used to that," the young woman, a little plump and quite a bit shorter than Idira, said. From her pretty, dark eyes, she regarded Idira, her expression open and frank, her face framed by thick, dark hair, falling in loose waves around her face and down her back. She moved into the room, holding out her hand in greeting. Idira took it, and let the other woman pump her hand up and down.

"First time I saw that, I puked," she said, laughing, her cheeks dimpling, the warm, infectious sound of her laughter filling the sterile room; her smile so warm and engaging, Idira couldn't help but smile back.

"I'm Wynn, and you are?" she asked, letting Idira's hand go and looking Idira over, curious and not in the least bit shy.

"Idira Northshire, from Westfall," Idira answered.

"Westfall?" Wynn replied, pursing her lips and screwing one eye tight as she looked up at the ceiling, far above. "Isn't that the notorious place of villains and gangsters?"

Idira blushed. "You could say that."

"Oh, how exciting!" Wynn plopped herself down beside Idira. "I would _love_ to meet a villain or a gangster, so romantic! You must tell me all about them, are they all handsome and roguish, with battle scars and big, hard muscles everywhere inside their leather jerkins and breeches?"

Idira was so taken aback by Wynn's enthusiastic descriptions she burst out laughing. Wynn raised her eyebrows, waiting, expectant.

"Some of them are, I suppose," she said, thinking of Kip and even grudgingly of VanCleef.

Wynn screeched, throwing her head back and clasping her hands against her chest. "I knew it!" she exulted, gleeful, kicking her satin-slippered feet. "Father always said it was nonsense, just stories, but I always had a feeling that all the _really_ interesting men ended up in Westfall."

"Oh, they were _interesting_ all right," Idira admitted, shaking her head, incredulous anyone could find criminals, mercenaries or thugs appealing. Seeing the naive look of pleasure on Wynn's face, she decided not to tell her how bad they smelled most of the time, it seemed wrong to ruin her fantasy, and anyway, VanCleef hadn't smelled bad, or at least up until Myra died, he hadn't. Afterwards he only smelled of cheap rum.

She glanced at Wynn's dark green dress, the hem, cuffs and neckline had been embroidered with pretty golden flowers. Despite the neck being a little low and the bodice cut a little tight against her torso, it worked without looking indecent, accentuating her full figure to a very pleasing effect. Unlike all the other apprentices Idira had passed as she trailed after the guard to the dorm, Wynn's dress didn't look expensive, at least no more expensive than the dresses Idira had seen the women wearing in Stormwind. A tendril of hope ignited in her as she sensed in Wynn a kindred spirit, offering the tantalising possibility that perhaps not everyone in this intimidating, hierarchical place was, as Vanessa so scathingly called them, 'a societal inbred'.

"So did you ever get busy with any of them?" Wynn blurted out, her eyes dancing with mischief. "Don't worry you can tell me, I won't ever tell anyone, cross my heart." And she did, so solemnly that Idira burst out laughing.

"Oh please, tell me something. Anything!" Wynn begged, taking hold of Idira's hands and continuing in a mournful voice. "Nothing interesting has ever happened to me, my father kept me at home my whole life, tucked away at the back of the manor where no one but the servants, my mother and boring sisters were, and _they_ only wanted to spend all their time in contemplation and praying to the Light." She rolled her eyes.

"I think I can see why he did," Idira said, wry, still smiling, imagining someone like Wynn around VanCleef's men. It certainly would have been a lot more lively around the house. "Well," Idira said, when Wynn jiggled her hands, urging her to continue, "I suppose some of the men _could_ be considered handsome, in a rough and rugged way, and they were real fighters, even if they were drunk, they could sober up in an instant and fight like seasoned warriors."

At this, Wynn let out a ecstatic sigh, her shoulders scrunching up high around her neck in delight.

"I have never 'gotten busy' with any of them," Idira continued, warming to Wynn's rapt attention, "but I did see a few things, from time to time." Wynn leaned closer, her eyes widening, hungry to hear. Idira glanced out the open door and lowered her voice, recounting the time Myra had destroyed her room and VanCleef had come in, barging through the broken door and tossing Myra on the bed, detailing how Myra had at first resisted but not for very long once he started kissing her, his eyes so hot, they looked like they were on fire.

Wynn shivered, a beatific smile spreading on her face, her hands holding Idira's so tight, it was starting to hurt.

"I want that," she exhaled. "So much." After a beat, she let go of Idira's hands and jumped up, agitated. "I mean I know you have only just arrived," she said as she paced back and forth in front of Idira, "but just wait until you see what the talent is like here." She made a face, gagging. "They are all Mama's boys, all pampered and soft, with their chubby, well-fed cheeks and not a muscle to be seen anywhere. And their hands! Ugh!" She shuddered. "Girl hands. Bleuch! There is literally nothing worse, especially when their fingernails are longer than mine! Disgusting!"

Idira lifted her eyebrows, disturbed by the thought of men with long, taloned fingernails, when she realised Wynn's were cut almost to the quick.

"Well, I guess being a mage doesn't really require much in the way of physical prowess or strong hands," Idira answered, suppressing a smile, though her thoughts strayed, rebellious, to Khadgar, and how solid he had felt when she'd stumbled into him at the flower seller's cart.

"Huh!" Wynn scoffed. "You wait and see, it's depressing. I have literally left one wasteland of men and landed in another. My father sure did know what he was doing sending me here from boring old Redridge, where _nothing_ ever happens, literally. We have rabbits and boars, and that's _it_." She plunked back down beside Idira and put her head on Idira's shoulder. "I'm never going to meet a real man. Ever. I'm going to die a virgin, I just know it. It's all so unfair!"

Idira had no idea what to say to such a confession so she just sat still, trying not to laugh, waiting to see what would happen next. As she expected, she didn't have to wait long. Wynn roused herself from her thoughts and looked up at Idira.

"You must think I'm a crazy person," she said, moving back into her own space and looking a little shame-faced, "the way I just barged in here like that, asking you all sorts of personal questions." She sighed and stood up, smoothing down the folds of her dress. "My father always told me I talked too much, that I have boundary issues."

"Maybe a little," Idira admitted, smiling, "but I honestly didn't mind. I find you a refreshing change to the kind of people I have met here so far."

"Oh that!" Wynn groaned, rolling her eyes as she turned and sat down on the bed opposite Idira. "Bunch of peacocks, full of themselves, rich kids, and I mean _really_ rich kids, they can spend more gold in one day than my father earns on his manor in a whole year. They don't care one bit about us 'low-lives' as they like to call us, both to our faces and behind our backs. You'll get used to it."

"How long have you been here?" Idira asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.

"Just over a week," Wynn nodded at the door across the hall, standing slightly ajar. "That's my room, I have it all to myself. There's loads of empty rooms up here because this is the"—she made quotation marks in the air—"'low-life floor'. Even though I met lots of other people on the gryphon landing who intended to join the Kirin Tor, it seems not so many of them have found the place to apply considering how empty our floor is. I got lucky, though, some woman in black found me outside the Pet Menagerie and led me right to the spot, for a hefty price, mind." She leaned back onto her elbow and crossed her leg over her knee, kicking her foot in the air. "Guess that's how you got in too, huh?"

"Um, yeah, a woman in black," Idira answered, vague. "So how many of us are there up here?" she asked, changing the subject.

Wynn smiled, her eyes lighting up. "Twelve now altogether, you, me, and ten others, four girls and six guys stuck right up here at the top of the dormitory tower, out of sight and out of mind, as my mother would say. Good thing for portals, would be a long climb otherwise." She waggled her foot for awhile, subsiding into her thoughts, then looked up, abrupt. "What did you think of Margot?"

"Margot?" Idira asked, perplexed.

"Yeah, the one who is taking the applications, all la-di-dah and condescension," Wynn scoffed, waving her hand in the air, pretending to be high and mighty. "Dark hair," Wynn continued as she lay on her side, her head propped against her hand, "smells like jasmine, angular face, arrogant, dripping with money?"

"Oh _her_ ," Idira muttered. "I hope I never have to see her again."

"Ha! Chance would be a fine thing!" Wynn said, scornful. "I heard from one of the rich kids that once Dalaran moves to the Broken Isles, she's going to be our tutor, assigned by the Archmage Modera herself with instructions to weed us out by making things so difficult for us we can't fulfil our obligations. And you know what that means? Expulsion."

"She can't do that, can she?" Idira asked, astonished. "Not after we have paid our fee and earned the right to learn alongside the others?"

"We'll see," Wynn said, darkly, lifting her eyes to the window to watch the clouds drifting past, wispy and ephemeral, "we'll see."

* * *

Much later on, a servant wearing Kirin Tor livery arrived at Idira's room carrying a neatly folded pile of bed linens, blankets, and a set of pillows. On the top of the pile, a set of fluffy white towels embroidered with the sigil of the Kirin Tor lay tied together with a golden cord. The servant set the items down on top of the bed and waited, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes on the floor.

"Um," Idira said, uncertain. "Thank you?"

The servant didn't move or answer. She just stood at the end of the opposite bed, silent, and as still as a statue. Idira raised her eyebrows and moved away from the wall to sit on the edge of the bed, feeling a little uneasy. The woman, who looked a few years older than Idira wore a simple blue dress and a crisp white apron bearing sigil of the Kirin Tor emblazoned over its breast; her dark blonde hair had been tied back into a neat bun, and a little square blue cap perched on her head, her face bore no cosmetics and was as plain as a piece of blank paper, utterly forgettable. Idira waited some more. The servant still didn't more. Idira had no idea what was happening. In Moonbrook, the servants carried out their duties automatically, unobtrusive and near invisible. She'd never needed to talk to them. Wynn passed by the door, her head popped back around the doorframe.

"Oh," she laughed, coming in to lean against the jamb, her hand on her hip, "happened to me too, you have to say which bed you are planning to use, so they can make it for you. They can't talk. It's a silencing spell, it's so they can't gossip."

"What!?" Idira asked, utterly flummoxed. "Why ever would anyone want to work in a place where they are forced to become mute?"

"They get to see some crazy stuff," Wynn shrugged, "so I suppose it's worth it, plus I heard the pay is amazing. No taxes here, either, so they can retire when they are forty, go home and live in wealth for the rest of their days."

"But they can't talk ever again?" Idira asked, eyeing the poor woman as she pointed at the bed she wanted made up.

"Nah, they can talk again, once they leave," Wynn said as she came in to watch the servant work. "One year later, the spell wears off. I guess the Kirin Tor figure anything the servants would have to talk about would be old news by then, so it's okay."

"These Kirin Tor," Idira murmured, suddenly uneasy, wondering how Khadgar could be a willing part of such a political, hierarchical, abusive organisation, "they are not what I expected. At all."

"They aren't all bad," Wynn said as she opened the wardrobe, and looked at Idira's new dress hanging inside. "Pretty," she said closing the door again. "No, there's this one Archmage on the Council of Six, he's old but kind of important, what's his name again?" She looked up at the ceiling, snapping her fingers, trying to remember. "Starts with a K, I think."

"Khadgar?" Idira offered, feeling a tingle of pleasure just from saying his name.

"That's the one," Wynn said pointing at Idira. "Him. Well he's an interesting one. Ages ago, he saved Azeroth by closing off a portal to another invading planet, but then he got stuck on the other planet for some reason, I don't know why but anyway he stayed there a long time until the demons opened up a new portal again, so then he was able to come back, but then there was a bunch of other stuff that happened in between then and now so he was away a lot in another time-line trying to fix the past or something." She started to look confused. Idira raised her eyebrows, dubious. "Look, it's complicated," Wynn snapped, impatient, "I guess he just likes to spend his time in a lot of other places that aren't _here_. But what I'm trying to get at is, he's finally back and hanging around Dalaran a lot, like _all_ the time, and now he's here he's seeing all the injustices and stuff and has been trying to fix it."

"I bet that's going down well," Idira muttered, glancing at the servant who was clearly listening to their conversation with great interest. A thought struck Idira, she dithered for a beat, then decided to take a chance, her curiosity overwhelming her. She moved nearer to the servant who was folding the most perfect sheet corners Idira had ever seen.

"Have you . . . ever waited on the Archmage Khadgar?" she asked, hesitant.

The servant ducked her head, but not before Idira saw the woman's cheeks flare up, bright red.

"I'll take that as a yes," Idira said, hiding a smile. "Is he nice?"

The servant's hands stopped moving and she stared down at the bed, biting her lip. For a heartbeat, Idira was afraid the woman would flee, unwilling to partake in 'gossip', but she turned and looked Idira right in the eye. She nodded, her eyes telling Idira everything she wanted to know. _He's different. Kind. Good. Not like the others._

It was over almost as quick as it began. The woman returned to her work, her motions quick and efficient.

"Well," Wynn breathed. "Now we know for certain we have at least one of the Council of Six on our side."

Before Idira could reply, three blinding flashes of bright blue light flared in through the open door, one after the other, shearing into the room, as brilliant as lightning.

"Everybody down to the cellars, now!" a guard bellowed, storming up and down the hall, throwing doors open, uncaring of the shouts of indignation coming from within. "Into the portals with you. Go! Go! Go! There is almost no time left."

The servant moved so fast, slipping past them and out the door she was almost a blur. Slower to react, Idira reached the door just in time to see the back of the servant's dress disappearing into one of the three shimmering portals down the hall in the circular, central portal chamber.

"Three portals? What's happening?" Idira cried out as a massive vibration shot up through the floor and into her body, numbing her legs. A vicious tug pulled on her, dragging her down, making her feel like she weighed a ton. For a wild panicky moment she wondered if Dalaran was falling from the sky.

"Boar's balls!" Wynn yelped, as someone pushed past her, knocking her against the wall in their haste to escape. "They're moving Dalaran already, it was supposed to be tomorrow!" Wynn grabbed Idira's hand, pulling her towards the portals. "Come on! We have to evacuate to where it's warded. Hurry!"

Lines of energy broached the floor, spreading into a crosshatch of blue light that swarmed into the hallway and over their bodies. The mesh slid upwards, inexorable, pushing its way through the ceiling. The drag increased on Idira, the pressure so intense she thought her head might explode. She tried to move. She couldn't.

"We're caught in the grid!" Wynn cried out, her eyes wild. Idira had no idea what the grid meant but it didn't sound good, and from the look of terror on Wynn's face, she suspected it was very bad.

Ahead, the remaining apprentices dodged the spreading lines and leapt into the portals, one after another. The guard stopped to look back at them, eyeing the lines shimmering over their bodies, holding them immobile. He shook his head, pity in his eyes and turned away into the nearest portal. One of the portals winked out, then another.

"Wait!" Wynn screamed, frantic, as the last portal vanished, leaving nothing but a shimmering white imprint of its previous existence behind, rapidly fading. Idira felt Wynn's hand tightening on hers, read the despair in her new friend's eyes. _We're going to die._

The volume and intensity of the vibration increased, relentless, until Idira felt as if every cell in her body resonated with the vibration's insistent, hypnotic thrum, her self aligning to it, becoming one with it, until she couldn't tell where she ended and the power surging along the grid lines began. It was impossible to talk, and even if she had wanted to, she didn't think she could have moved her jaw, her entire being felt weighted down, crushed in the grip of a force she couldn't even begin to comprehend. Impossibly, the force increased. Though she didn't change, she _felt_ as though she was shrinking, condensing, her body compacting into the tiniest, densest possible amount of space.

Pain came, beyond anything she could ever have imagined. If she could have screamed she would as the vibration tore into her, pulling her apart piece by piece, fragmenting her, shattering the layers of her being, delving past her physical boundaries and crashing into her mental, emotional and psychological barriers, disintegrating them, and her, until she couldn't remember who she was, what she was, _if_ she was. Each ragged breath took a millennia to complete. The agony of her existence stretched out, tight like a skin pulled taut on a tanning frame. She longed for oblivion, for it to end, for silence, for death.

A glow of violet light ballooned out from her core, distorting in the dense space as it spiralled around her, surrounding her, billowing out so that it cocooned both her and Wynn within its soft layers. The pain lessened, then ceased. She could feel again, move again. Wynn looked up at her, still holding her hand, astonished, her mouth hanging open as she stared at Idira's face, incredulous. Outside their sphere of light, the grid lines began to move, sliding over their violet sanctuary, rotating faster until the structure of the hallway, the doors, even the central portal room blurred, distorted by the sweeping light of the grid. The grid lines spun on, speeding up, their thrum deafening, the violet sphere trembling as the lines reached a terrifying velocity, transforming the space outside the sphere into a blinding wall of light.

An explosion of blue light washed over them, impossibly bright, blossoming out, brilliant, the centre of a star. The sphere's light flared, shielding them from blindness, still, the backs of Idira's eyes burned, raw from the onslaught. The vibrations stopped. In the blast's wake, silence screamed into Idira's senses, her body juddered, spasming with relief. She sagged onto her knees, no longer captive to the grid's deep thrum. Stillness. One heartbeat. Two. Three. The light began to fade, slow, like the reverse creep of dawn. Her eyes watering, Idira squinted past the light of the sphere, trying to see. The faint outlines of the hallway coalesced, highlighted by the light of the grid lines as they slipped down from the ceiling, along the walls, and through the floor, sliding away, sinuous, back to wherever they had come from.

The violet sphere melted away. Clinging to each other, Idira and Wynn collapsed onto the floor, trembling. By degrees the hallway returned, solidifying, the central portal room coalescing. Natural light filtered in through Idira's window, illuminating the hallway's carpet beside Idira's head, touching her shoulder, warming it. The ordinariness of the sudden warmth of a shaft of sunlight jarring, yet reassuring.

Wearing an expression that flitted from suspicion to awe, Wynn examined Idira, her eyes narrow. "You," she croaked. She shook her head and cleared her throat. "Your eyes," she continued, still hoarse, "glowed. You saved us, somehow." She shook her head again, as though fighting her thoughts. "You alone resisted the combined power of the Council of Six. How did you—"

"I don't know," Idira interrupted, not wanting Wynn to continue down that line of thinking. Her throat ached, she really needed a drink of water. "That's why I came to Dalaran."

Wynn backed away, uncertain, respectful. "I never noticed your eyes before," she whispered. "Violet. Just like your new dress. You . . . You're not like the rest of us." With a soft groan, she lifted herself up onto all fours, and edged her way backwards to her room. "Thank you for saving my life," she murmured as she scuttled inside. With one last frightened look, she shut the door, quiet, in Idira's face.

* * *

When the dormitory's portal finally flared back to life, Idira was waiting for it. She slipped into it before anyone arrived, keen to escape the inevitable questions of how she could have survived Dalaran's move to the Broken Isles. She hurried across the grounds, expecting to find devastation and destruction, but the campus looked exactly the same as when she had last seen it, not even a leaf looked out of place.

From out of the buildings, residents of the Academy slowly emerged, blinking and hesitant, looking slightly dazed and disoriented but otherwise unharmed. At the Academy's gate, she collected a pass card from the empty booth so she could get back into the grounds, before hastening to make her way along the still mostly deserted streets towards the concealed grassy alley that led to the foul-smelling steps down to the sewers and on to the tavern.

At the bar, no one was around. She went into the back, searching through the blanket of greasy cigar smoke for her niece. She was just about to leave when she saw a plume of cigarette smoke curling up from the shadows of one of the alcoves.

"Looking for me?" Vanessa's familiar voice asked, though she sounded a little rough.

Idira let out a sigh of relief and rushed over to the table. "You're alive!" she said, sinking down onto one of the stools. "But how?"

"Stealthed," Vanessa shrugged, grunting with pain as she leaned forward to stub out her cigarette. "There was a warded place for us to go, we'd had flyers thrown down the stairs last week about it, but the date was scheduled for tomorrow. It happened so fast, there wasn't enough time to get to the portal. I was the only one in here who survived."

"Baxter?" Idira asked, suddenly sorry for the surly barman.

"Saw him go. Shrank down to a tiny speck. Vanished into a point of light," she grunted again, as she rolled her shoulder. "Not nice."

Idira shuddered, recalling her own experience. Vanessa got up, groaning, gesturing for Idira to follow her. At the deserted bar, Vanessa went behind the counter, pulled out a pair of shot glasses and a fat, squat bottle of something the colour of amber. She filled both glasses to the brim.

"Drink," she ordered, throwing back her hood and tossing the liquid down her throat, finishing with a hearty sigh.

Idira picked up the little glass and sipped. Fire burned over her tongue and down her throat, followed by heat, then a pleasant numbing sensation. It felt good. She tipped the rest back in one go.

"That's my girl," Vanessa murmured, bending down to rifle behind the bar. She stood back up, hefting an iron-bound money box. She opened it. The soft gleam of gold winked back at them in the candlelight.

"Jackpot," she smiled, closing the lid and tucking ithe box under her arm. "Let's bank this first. I'll split it with you fifty-fifty, then we may as well go and watch the show."

Idira had no idea what show Vanessa meant for them to see. She wondered if they were going to watch some sort of magical event, perhaps in the park while enjoying some more sandwiches from the Bagel Brothers. She soon realised just how wrong she was.

* * *

Outside the towering walls of the city, Idira found herself standing once more in the courtyard where she had gone to join the Kirin Tor. At a safe distance from the little courtyard wall, she gazed out at a changed world. The dull-grey mountains of Deadwind Pass were gone, replaced by a sparkling deep-blue sea. The whitecap-flecked surface stretched away to the horizon, a pristine expanse marred by the scar of a massive, charred island, completely devoid of any kind of vegetation, its surface torn ragged by rivers of churning, foul-green lava. At the island's far end, a vast, blackened structure towered up into the sky, its broken spires and decaying finials surrounded by pulsing jets of energy, lurid-green. Above the structure, the skies churned, a tumult of black clouds, seething, tortured, relentless, caught in a maelstrom of dark power, the vortex emanating up from the hold's centre.

Vanessa lifted her foot up onto the wall, pulled out her tobacco pouch and spread a rolling paper against her leather-clad thigh. "And so, the Battle for the Broken Shore begins. Front row seats, not bad, eh?" she said as she tipped a little tobacco onto the paper.

Idira didn't answer. Juggernauts appeared from underneath Dalaran, hundreds of them, slicing through the ocean's waves, moving towards the island's southern shore at full speed. One of the great ships pulled ahead of the others, opening the way. Though the distance was great, the sound of the ships' horns rose up, carrying across the sea to them, faint.

Close by, a sudden blast of horns answered back, startling Idira. Emerging from either side of the elongated curve of the city's walls, dozens of airships came into view, flying in formation, the heavy pulse of their propellers deafening as they swept past, cutting across the skies; to the right, the ships bore the insignia of the Alliance, to the left, however, other airships flew past, of a different design to the ones from the Alliance, their vast envelopes not blue, but red, or purple. Logan's words returned to Idira: _We are going to bring the fight to the Legion's stronghold, all of us, friend and foe, fighting together as one._ She examined the opposing faction's airships as they sailed past, curious. So these were the ships of the enemies of the Alliance, of the faction known as the Horde. On one of the ships she glimpsed a troll standing at its rear, dressed similar to how she remembered Unambi looked in his armour. Her heart lurched, for a moment believing it was Unambi she was seeing, and not another.

"Vol'jin," Vanessa said around her cigarette as she lit it, nodding at the ship as it sped by. "The Warchief of the Horde. A great warrior."

"Just like Unambi," Idira breathed.

Vanessa met Idira's eyes, though she didn't ask the question Idira feared she would one day have to answer. _What happened to Unambi?_ Instead Vanessa said, soft, "Yeah, I thought so, too."

The sound of horns rose up again from the ships in the sea, answered once more by the deep, bellowing war-horns of the airships of both the Alliance and the Horde, the powerful reverberations of their long, harsh notes resonating up Idira's spine. She crept closer to the edge, her fear of heights dwarfed by her dread for what she was about to witness. Though the distance was too great to see anything in detail, it was clear enough that the blackened island seethed with demons, its surface heaving and shifting like a living thing. The juggernaut that had pulled in front of the others was fast approaching the rocky shore. Another blast of horns and it barrelled up onto the coast, slamming right into the beach: Logan's soldiers, tiny as ants leapt off the ship, hundreds of them, swarming up onto the beach, the glint of sunlight reflecting against their blades as they pushed their way into the boiling wall of demons.

Vanessa pointed her cigarette at the beachhead. "Those men right there," she said, her voice low and thick with respect, "those men are the real heroes of Azeroth."

Idira felt her fingers curling into fists, her fingernails cutting into her palms. Logan was down there, in the midst of them, fighting for Azeroth, for her. She leaned over, her heart in her mouth, wishing she could see more clearly, wishing he could know she was there, staying with him right to the end.

Other juggernauts were pulling in now, fast approaching the beachhead, riding the waves up to the shore, more soldiers jumped out, joining the fray. Idira's heart skipped a beat, hope filling her. Maybe Logan would survive, maybe—

Across the cursed isle, horns blared, deep, rough, and ragged around the edges. Out of the upper reaches of the tower, thousands of demons burst forth, unfurling their leathery wings as they tumbled through the air, their screeching, hateful cries tearing at Idira's ears, like daggers yanked against glass. They filled the skies, blackening it, blocking out the light of the sun as they swarmed over the airships, their talons tearing into wood and steel. The soldiers on the airships fought, valiant, but more demons arrived, slamming their vile bodies into the ships' envelopes, puncturing them, their flesh melting away, liquefying in the envelopes' gases. One by one, the airships in the vanguard staggered, faltering, tilting at crazy angles as the demons landed, clawing their way over the sides, hauling the soldiers overboard, sending them tumbling through the skies down to their watery graves.

"That's Varian's ship," Vanessa said, eyeing the one at the front, tense, no longer interested in her cigarette, burning to a stub between her fingers. Idira watched, horrified as the King's airship, swarming with demons, went down, its soldiers leaping overboard before it crashed into the waters, its deadly propellers still beating, steady and purposeful, throwing up vicious geysers of seawater.

Yet despite the overwhelming odds, the combined forces of the Horde and Alliance continued to push forward, determined, one boat out of four making it through the chaos to the shore, unloading their desperate cargoes of warriors, paladins, mages, warlocks, druids, shamans, priests, hunters, death knights and even the newly joined demon hunters, followers of the long dead half-demon himself, the Betrayer Illidan.

All across the shoreline desperate bursts of light flashed and glimmered as practitioners of the four schools of magic struggled to drive the demons back, fighting to maintain the foothold Logan's men had bought with their lives. A deafening crack filled the air, reminding Idira of the sound of lightning hitting a tree. A massive burst of blue spread out from the middle of the beachhead, its burning, hissing light clearing half the shoreline of the demonic filth. The nightmarish creatures howled in agony as they fell to their knees, writhing in flames of blue fire. Flashes erupted from them as they expired, the beach flickering to life, dotted with blossoms of lurid green as hundreds of fel-infested souls returned to the Void.

Vanessa let go of her extinguished cigarette, pointing with a tobacco stained finger at the ring of arcane power still spreading across the island, undulating, destroying every demon in its path as it disappeared into the distance. "That could only be Khadgar's work," she said, not bothering to hide her admiration. "He insisted on joining the front lines of the fight, although how long he'll be able to keep on casting spells of that magnitude is anyone's guess."

Idira couldn't see him, lost among the smear of men and women fighting for Azeroth, the beach littered with the dead and dying, both Azerothian and demonic, explosions of blue, green, yellow and orange light erupted, constant now in the wake of Khadgar's spell; a bizarre fireworks display of death, the screams of the dying carrying on the wind, the voices of the dead still living on in Idira's ears even after their last breath had been exhaled.

Within her breast, Idira could feel her own Light stirring, awakening, itching to join the fight against the demons; as though having tasted their deaths back in Westfall, it hungered for more. She watched as the forces of Azeroth moved further into the island, pushing fresh onslaughts of demons back, relentless, until the Azerothians were almost at its centre. For a wild moment, it seemed to Idira that they would win, would overcome their foe, when suddenly, everything seemed to go wrong. The Azerothian forces split into two and just as each side began to press forward once more towards the terrible, seething citadel, thousands more demons arrived, far more than the men and women of Azeroth could possibly handle. They fell, hundreds of them, maybe a thousand within mere heartbeats. Horns blared, sounding the retreat, an airship bearing a purple envelope arrived. A ship of the Horde. From high atop a hill their survivors fled, a mere handful. Left alone, the forces of the Alliance carried on fighting, though they faced a rapidly losing battle.

"Why don't they retreat?" Idira cried out as hundreds more fell, scythed down by the single blade of a dreadlord, as tall as a cathedral spire.

"Help is coming, look," Vanessa pointed at an Alliance airship approaching fast, veering in from the beach at a crazy angle, cannon fire erupting chaotically from its sides. Rope ladders tumbled out, their dangling ends quickly seized upon by those still alive below. Caught in the ship's reeling evasive manoeuvres, the survivors struggled up the ladders, looking like beetles, clinging onto the knotted ropes as the ladders snapped, violent, from side to side.

The ship tilted, its propellers roaring, and hurtled away. Still, the fighting continued, a knot closing in, surrounding one warrior, fighting on, alone.

"They left one behind!" Idira screamed. "Go back!" She waved her arms, frantic, at the ship racing past Dalaran. "Go back!"

"They can't hear you," Vanessa said, cold, her eyes riveted on the one left alone, fighting, valiant, demons falling around him, left and right.

"Who is that?" Idira breathed, her heart trembling, wondering if it might be Logan.

Vanessa reached into her tunic and pulled out a slim tube, keeping her eye on the one left behind, she pulled on one end of the tube. It extended out to the length of Idira's forearm. Vanessa brought it up to her eye, closing her other one.

"No," she breathed. She handed the strange item to Idira, who took it, clumsy.

"Look through the lens," she ordered, impatient as Idira lifted it, uncertain to her eye, "it brings things far away up close. Hurry up, before it's too late."

Idira pressed the tube against her eye. At first she couldn't see anything, just black, and then the sea, the white caps frothing, up close and in detail.

"Hurry!" Vanessa snapped.

Idira slid the lens along the shore, following the path of the dead to the centre of the island and up towards the gates of the dark tower. In her haste, she skimmed over the demons gathered around the solitary warrior too fast, and had to go back, slow.

Then she saw who had been left behind. It wasn't Logan after all, but she wasn't sure she felt any less terrible as she watched King Varian, a glowing sword in each hand, slaughter the last of the demons gathered around him. His chest heaving with exertion, he approached a bent and hooded creature, standing on the steps of the tower. It waited, arrogant, leaning on a staff encrusted with skulls. Around the creature's neck another assortment of skulls dangled. Idira caught her breath, she had seen these creatures before, in her books. An orc, male. He looked up, amused, and sneered at Varian who strode towards him through the churning, sickly, green-tainted light. From under his hood, the orc's eyes glowed a malevolent red. They flared bright. He said something, brief, his lips curving, smug, around his sharp incisors as he lifted his staff and pointed it at the King of the Alliance.

Foul green light burst from the staff and slammed into Varian, sliding over him and into his body. His eyes and mouth opened wide, the light tearing him apart from the inside out, fragmenting him, pouring out from between his armour, blistering out from his eyes and mouth, beams of green fire. He fell to his knees, his arms open wide, as though imploring to the Light to aid him, in this, his final ordeal. The sickly light within him throbbed, pulsing, building in strength. He sank to all fours, his chest heaving. Blinding waves of foul light emanated from him, surging with an incomprehensible intensity. In total silence an explosion of yellow-green light burst away from him, so bright Idira turned away. A heartbeat later the filthy light washed over her, reaching all the way to the walls of Dalaran behind her. The light retreated, racing back across the distance, it slammed into its epicentre, who used to be Varian, it pulsed once, then faded away. Idira lifted the lens back to her eye. Nothing remained of Stormwind's King. Where he last stood, his fallen swords lay forlorn and lost, the magic within them fading. One by one they winked out, following their master's soul to the Light. With a satisfied smirk, the orc turned and walked away, sweeping back up the steps of the dark citadel, his cloak billowing out behind him. The demons followed after him, their hooves treading over Varian's swords, burying them into the blackened earth, shattering them, leaving them in unrecognisable pieces.

Idira lowered the lens, her hands trembling. They had lost. The King was dead, the great hero, Varian Wrynn gone, and so easily overcome by that orc. She lifted the lens back up again and searched the beachhead, trying to find Logan, but there were too many fallen, bodies lay heaped one on top of the other, not all of them intact. It was impossible. She would never find him. She handed the lens back to Vanessa, who slid it down into its compact size and tucked it back into her tunic.

"Well," Vanessa said, after a long silence. "This changes everything."

* * *

Back in her dorm room, Idira gazed out her window at the distant, dark smear of the Broken Shore, its ruined reaches a sullen blister on the ocean's pristine horizon. Logan was dead, she was certain of it. Long after he'd landed, hundreds of others had fallen on the ground his men had claimed, soaking the beach in their blood.

She rubbed her hands against her hips, distracted, thinking of when he said what they had experienced in Westfall had only been a taste of what awaited them on the Broken Shore. At the time she hadn't believed it could possibly be any worse, but it was; even her worst imaginings hadn't come close to what she had witnessed that afternoon. With the battle lost, and the demons still holding the island, she realised no one would be able to return to collect his body. He would never be buried or properly mourned, instead he would lay there on that wretched beach in his rusting armour, the sun rising and falling over the skies of Azeroth, following its endless, uncaring cycle while he succumbed to the decay of his flesh and rotted alongside the thousands of others blanketing that dreadful shore, friend, ally and foe.

A timid knock came to her door. Idira turned as Wynn pushed the door, already ajar, open. She looked in, shy.

"Can I come in?" she asked, diffident, glancing at Idira's eyes, furtive, then down at the empty bed.

"Of course," Idira answered, grateful for the company. She sank down onto her half-made bed, waiting while Wynn settled herself onto the bare mattress opposite and smoothed down her dress.

"It's just," Wynn began, her eyes sliding up the wall past Idira to roam along the cornice, tracing out its intricate design, "today I met one person and then they turned into another one, a really scary one, with an awful lot of power. I know you saved my life and all, and don't get me wrong, I'm really grateful but now I don't know who you really are, and I told you all that stuff about me, but I don't know anything about you except you're from Westfall. I mean, maybe you're a Kirin Tor spy, and now I'm going to be in big trouble for all the things I said."

She inhaled as she finished, catching her breath after saying everything so fast, her words so quick at the end they blurred together. She peeked at Idira, then down at her hands, her fingers folded together, her knucklebones standing out, white.

"I am the one you first met," Idira said, gentle, "the other part only happens when my life is in danger, otherwise my power doesn't do anything, apart from making my eyes this colour." Idira decided not to mention the dreams or visions, no need to complicate matters.

"Oh?" Wynn said, glancing at Idira, hope igniting in her eyes. "So like a defence mechanism?"

"You could call it that," Idira said, finding a wan smile for her friend.

"So . . . you're _not_ a spy?" Wynn said, scrunching up her face like a child who'd been caught with their hand in the pastry tin. She looked so ridiculous, Idira burst out laughing.

"No. Not a spy. Not by a long shot."

Wynn exhaled, relief spreading over her face. "You do have weird eyes though," she said, blunt. "Margot's going to give you a lot of hassle about them I bet."

"I expect it won't take much for her to persecute any of us," Idira scoffed, glancing back out the window, another arc of pain slicing through her as she thought of Logan laying alone and forgotten on the beach.

"I didn't see you at dinner," Wynn said, looking out the window, following Idira's gaze. "There's been a bit of a to-do, everyone's talking about it, did you hear?"

Idira looked back at Wynn, curious. "No, I haven't," she answered. "I suppose it's about what happened today?"

"Sort of," Wynn shrugged. "The Council of Six had a big fight, the Leader, Jaina Proudmoore wanted to kick the Horde out of Dalaran because she blamed them for King Varian dying, said they abandoned the Alliance on purpose for their own ends."

Idira raised her brow, knowing that from what she had seen, Jaina's twisted version of what happened wasn't even close to the truth. She didn't have time to say anything, though, because Wynn was on a roll.

"Anyway," Wynn continued, "Khadgar tried to calm things down saying Azeroth needed to be united to fight against the Legion but Jaina kept saying, no she wanted them out immediately. I don't know if you know but more than half the students and tutors here are from the Horde, orcs and everything!" She wiggled her backside across the mattress until she could lean back against the wall, her feet waggling over the edge of the mattress. "Well, then Jaina got really mad because someone was disagreeing with her, apparently she _really_ hates that, so the Council decided to call a vote. It was close but she was outvoted by one, Khadgar's vote. So guess what she did?!" Wynn leaned forward, gleeful, her heels drumming against the mattress, impatient.

Idira shook her head, she literally had no idea.

"Ha! I knew it!" Wynn exulted. "Well, she threw a little temper tantrum and said—and this part Wynn recounted in an annoying, whiny falsetto— "' _If the Horde will be a part of the Kirin Tor and Dalaran then I want nothing to do with it'_ and then poof, just like that, she teleported out of the Council chambers and left the Kirin Tor!"

She nodded once, meaningfully, eyeing Idira as she leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms over her chest, looking like the cat that got the cream.

"So, that's the big to-do?" Idira asked, perplexed, not really understanding why what the Council did had any relevance to Wynn's life, or her own for that matter.

"Ah no!" Wynn slapped her hand against her head. "I missed the best part!" She scuttled to the edge of the bed and leaned in close, lowering her voice. "Because this is what really matters to us: the new Leader of the Kirin Tor is none other than, guess who? _Khadgar_!"


	18. Chapter 16

**CHAPTER 16**

* * *

Wynn was right, though Idira was too new to the politics of the Academy to appreciate the implications of the changes, there was no doubt the shocking development within the Council had spread through the Academy like wildfire, fuelling gossip and speculation. _Jaina has abandoned the Kirin Tor_. _Vol'jin betrayed the Alliance and left Varian to die. Khadgar's the new Leader. Members of the Horde allowed to remain in Dalaran._

At breakfast, Idira learned not only had the Alliance lost their King in the battle, but Vol'jin, the Warchief of the Horde, who had reminded her so much of Unambi, had succumbed to his own grievous injuries soon after he named his successor, Sylvanas, the Queen of the Forsaken.

Across the mess hall no one ate. Instead, the space seethed in a susurration of whispers and murmurs as little clusters of various races gathered around the tables, their voices rising as they argued, the groups breaking apart and reforming into new ones, reminding Idira of bubbles in a pot of boiling water.

Throughout the room, accusing looks flew back and forth as friendships ended and backs were turned. The students milled together, split, reassembled, and split again, taking new sides, forging new allegiances, the division between the races of the Horde and the Alliance becoming more and more striking as the minutes ticked by. It seemed Jaina's version of the story had been seized upon by the apprentices and trainees of the Academy with something akin to religious zeal, making rumours and lies the new currency in trade. Idira kept her eyes on her bowl of porridge and said nothing, realising she might be the only person in the room who had seen the Battle first-hand, and who knew the ugly truth: they were all going to die if they didn't put aside their prejudices and fight the true enemy as one.

A fight broke out near the front of the mess hall. The tutors dining at the top table watched the outburst, their eyes cold, as though enjoying the sight, doing nothing to stop the fight, spectators at a gladiator ring. In the narrow space between the student's tables and the head table, a male night elf and an orc tussled, dragging and pulling at each others' robes, their blows glancing and weak. The orc shoved the night elf away, his chest heaving from exertion.

"I thought you were my friend!" he spat, his eyes glowing with contained magic. "You would believe these lies? We lost our leader, too!"

"Our King would still be alive if your people hadn't abandoned him!" the night elf shot back, rubbing his wrist, sulky. "But your people ran away, like cowards. You talk of strength and honour, but in truth, you have none!"

At that, the orc roared and rushed at the night elf, barrelling into him, the force of his attack sending them both crashing into one of the tables, knocking several other students aside, the porcelain dishes smashing against the stone-flagged floor. The pair continued to tussle, though they were terrible at it, not really doing any real harm to the other, both of them looking ridiculous. If the situation hadn't felt so dire, Idira would have found the sight funny.

She leaned over to Wynn. "Isn't anyone going to do anything?" she asked in a low voice, glancing at the tutors watching the hapless fighters, some of them continuing to eat, bored.

"Probably not," Wynn shrugged. "As far as I can tell, the Alliance tutors pretty much have the same opinion, so maybe they like watching us fight about it, since they can't."

"But if Khadgar says we are to work together in the war against the demons, why aren't they supporting his order?" Idira asked, raising her voice to be heard over another crash, as the pair knocked over a bench and tumbled down onto the floor, crawling over each other, struggling to be the first to have the other in a choke hold, both of them failing and, at least in her opinion, utterly embarrassing themselves.

"As if!" Wynn snorted, rolling her eyes, "the Council is so far removed from us, they may as well be on another planet. The only one who takes any interest in the Academy is the Archmage Modera and that's only because Margot is her niece, and whatever Margot tells her is never questioned. It's been like that for years from what I hear."

"So Margot must have a lot of power at the Academy?" Idira hazarded, though she expected she already knew the answer.

"Huh, she _is_ the power, _and_ she's got money, so she's spoiled _and_ powerful, and starting in a few minutes, she's going to be our tutor who happens to already hate us." The corners of Wynn's mouth turned down as she frowned. "I expect things are only going to get a lot worse from here on out, but at least we have each other, eh?"

The fight ended, abrupt. The orc stood up and spat on the floor beside his once-friend, who rolled on the floor, moaning, his arms wrapped around his torso. With a scoff, the orc walked away, jerking at his robes, straightening them as he joined the others milling on the opposite side of the room, all of them from the races of the Horde. Idira was glad he had won, since he was in the right, though when she looked around at the angry, bitter faces surrounding her, she suspected she was the only one on her 'side' who was.

* * *

After the morning's assembly and announcements were completed (nothing at all mentioned of the failed Battle or the deaths of Azeroth's leaders or the election of the new Leader of the Kirin Tor, or even of the morning's events in the mess hall; just useless information: a new round of croquet being added to the tournament in the Quadrangle if anyone new wished to join, please see Minty Lerue for fees and applications; until further notice, the laundry facilities were being renovated, so all laundry was being sent into the city, expect an extra day for the return of one's clothing; generous donations for the continued protection of the endangered mana kittens in the Dalaran Park being gratefully accepted in the vestibule of the library between 10am and 7pm all day).

In the vestibule outside the assembly hall, Idira and her eleven 'low-life' colleagues waited at the designated point for Margot to arrive, nervous and self-conscious, painfully aware of the hateful, disdainful looks being cast in their direction by those who 'belonged', those of the croquet-playing, mana-kitten-protecting elite. Idira wondered how much gold was considered a 'generous' donation here in la-la land, probably far more than she was prepared to imagine. As she waited, she prepared herself for the worst, expecting their classroom to be somewhere in the bowels of the Academy, dark, dank, and isolated from the rest of the campus; no daylight, spiders and cobwebs, gaping openings in the floor covered by rusting iron grills leading to even more nefarious, foul-smelling places.

In the midst of Idira's gloomy thoughts Margot swept up, in a different gown than she had been wearing at breakfast, a deep green one, the back bare and draped with—

"Are those diamonds?" Wynn breathed, as Margot's dress caught the light streaming in through the soaring windows, half-blinding Idira.

Her eyes watering, Idira nodded, watching Margot as she cast a spell, their tutor behaving as though she couldn't even see them. A portal opened. Hurrying after the others, Idira followed Wynn into the shimmering oval of light, bracing herself for the nasty shock on the other side, however within the blink of an eye, she found herself in a massive windowless cupula, her frame dwarfed by the spiralling reaches of one of the Academy's many towers. In the middle of the enormous space stood a table, in the shape of a half-moon. Trying not to gape quite as much as the others, she walked across a room so opulent she wondered if there had been a mistake, or if perhaps Margot intended a cruel joke. _You could have all this, but instead—a wave of her hand and the dungeon-esque room Idira had expected would appear—you will have this._

Along with the other apprentices, Idira sank down into her seat at the table, a gilt name card set before each of their plush chairs, her fellow students' eyes roaming the book-clad walls up to the furthest reaches of the tower, where a jumble of arcane runes floated, pulsing with energy as they darted and dived following a complex dance only a trained mage could possibly comprehend.

Margot stood on the other side of the table, her slender arms crossed over her breast, waiting until they subsided. She looked down at her perfectly manicured fingernails, bored.

"I intend to teach you nothing," she said down to her nails, "your presence here is more than unwelcome, as by now you must be well aware. We at the Kirin Tor have far better things to trouble ourselves with than hand-holding the likes of you."

"Yeah, like playing croquet," one of the others muttered, a young fiery-haired man, sitting three seats away from Idira.

Margot shot him a look, her eyes flashing an icy blue. She murmured spell, so low Idira couldn't catch the words. The outspoken one cried out, his eyes widening as he scrabbled at his mouth, sealing over with a thick layer of ice. Idira shrank down in her chair, a surge of fear rocking through her, she was fairly certain the use of arcane was only meant for good, or for war, not for harming others, else why didn't the orc and night elf fight with magic? She glanced up at Margot, catching the satisfied smirk on her tutor's face, both dangerous and vindictive.

"Now," Margot continued, once more looking at her nails, "you have paid your fee and thus are entitled to have access to the Apprentices' Library—the room you now find yourselves so cravenly gawping at. Therefore if you have any talent at all, you will be able to learn the use of arcane for yourselves. As indicated in the Academy's rules: for apprentices to remain in their studies they must be able to cast a level one frostbolt, fire blast, frost nova, teleport, polymorph a colleague into a sheep and back again, and conjure refreshment within three months. If you cannot, as per the regulations you will be cast out and banned from ever being able to reapply to the Kirin Tor again. Understood?"

An uncertain nodding of heads.

She turned and swept away, placing herself as far from them as she could possibly go, taking a seat at an ornate desk tucked into an alcove. Her gaze raked over them, cold and filled with loathing. A wave of her hand and the ice melted from the red-haired man's mouth, leaving behind a bright red burn on his pale skin.

"By the blood of—" he spluttered, indignant. The girl next to him elbowed him in the arm, a warning look in her eye as Margot's glare intensified. He fell silent.

Wynn stood up, eyeing the ladders connected to railings running along the outer rim of the bookshelves; shelves which easily held tens of thousands of books. "Well, I guess we better get started," she murmured, uncertain. "Three months isn't much time to learn all that stuff, especially without any tutoring."

"Or books," one of the other girls, a dark-haired night elf muttered, her voice soft and lilting despite her acute bitterness. "She has given us an impossible task and well she knows it. Even if we work night and day it will take us _years_ just to find the right books!"

As the others grumbled and dithered, overwhelmed by the odds against them, Idira sensed her Light awakening, just a trickle, like the beat of a butterfly's wings. A tug made her look up. High up, a fat tome stood out, outlined in a pale violet light. Keeping her eyes on the book, she went to the ladder nearest to it, pulling the ladder along its rollers until it was lined up with the glowing book. She fixed the brake, then began the long climb up.

"What's she doing?" she heard one of the others whisper.

"It's like she knows exactly which one she wants," another murmured, intrigued.

"She's just showing off," the red-haired man scoffed, derisive.

"Shut up!" Wynn, this time. "Let's just wait and see, eh?"

Idira ignored them as they bickered amongst themselves, keeping her eye on the book as she ascended the ladder, enjoying the whispering hush her new dress made as she lifted her legs. She hadn't felt the rustle of pristine linen in almost ten years, not since she had made the dress from the material Logan had given her. She reached the shelf and pulled out the book, struggling to keep it tucked under her arm as she descended the ladder, clumsy, hampered by the weight of the ponderous book.

She had no idea what book she had taken, but she trusted her Light. It wouldn't lead her astray. She set the book on the table, the others clustering around her, curious. She opened it, the lettering on the frontispiece making the others draw in their breaths, their soft gasps loud in the room's studied quiet. She read the words, written in beautiful script: _The Arte of Conjuring Bolts of Frost: A Beginner's Guide Vol. 1._

She smiled at the others, pleased. "Found one," she said, and turned the page.

* * *

For the first two days of their studies in the Apprentices' Library, as the students puzzled through the complicated chapters of the book, Margot completely ignored them. But on the third day, when Wynn displayed a fluttering of arcane energy spreading through her hands as she concentrated on casting her first spell, Margot looked up from her book, sharp.

"What do you think you are doing?" she demanded, coming over to them, causing the nascent flickers of blue in Wynn's hands to dwindle away.

"I . . ." Wynn said, paling as Margot dragged the open book across the table and flipped the book closed, opening it again to its frontispiece. Her lips thinned as she read the title.

"Who found this?" she looked up at the group, her expression dangerous, full of accusation.

The red-haired male, now known to Idira as Asur pointed at her, ignoring Wynn's blistering glare. "She did," he said, adding, unnecessarily, in a sycophantic voice, "first book she picked out of the stacks."

"You turd," Wynn muttered.

"Arse kisser," someone else said, under their breath, though Idira wasn't sure who.

Margot turned, slow, and faced Idira. She drew herself up, reminding Idira of a Westfall viper preparing to strike.

"Let me guess," Margot sneered, contemptuous, "your demon-slaying _Light_ helped you find it?"

Idira didn't say anything, suspecting Margot didn't care for her answer anyway. Her tutor continued, scathing, "From now on, your studies will be taken separately from the others. Since you seem to possess an unfair advantage, your time can be put to better use in the Academy Library. You will work there during the day, and may study here in the evenings, _if_ there is someone around who will portal you in and out."

Margot turned away and began to cast a portal. Idira slid a look at Wynn, who was already opening her mouth to protest. Idira shook her head, warning her to stay out of it.

The portal blossomed open, spreading into a neat oval, the surface shimmering, a liquid film of bright blue, like a pool of water.

"In you go," Margot said, grabbing hold of Idira's arm and marching her towards it, rough. "When you get there, go to the Main Reception Desk and tell the Director on Duty I have sent you there for indefinite archival duty. They will know what to do with you."

At Margot's final words, Idira felt herself being thrust into the portal. She lost her balance and tumbled face first into it, landing on the other side on her hands and knees. The portal snapped shut behind her. She stood up and looked around, brushing off her dress, although there was no need, the floor was immaculate. From the sofas clustered into little groups along the vast reception hall, several students glanced up at her, curious, returning to their books and coffees when nothing else interesting happened. Along one face of the building, soaring windows rose up at least twice the height of the house in Moonbrook, allowing brilliant beams of sunlight to stream down onto an elegant interior garden, running the length of the marble-floored reception, in its leafy midst a large fountain burbled, the quiet cascade of its water calming and soothing.

On the opposite side of the garden, the entrance to the Library loomed, its silver-gilt gates standing open, a pair of guards positioned to either side. They eyed those passing by, hostile, vigilant and intimidating.

Just outside and to the left of the gates stood a low platform with a half dozen desks arranged in two neat rows. A barrier as high as Idira's waist wrapped around the platform. Behind the barrier, several Kirin Tor staff moved around, looking harried and stressed. On the wall at the back, a sign, gilt, as usual, in gold, read:

 _Dalaran Library of the Kirin Tor_

 _Main Reception Desk._

 _All Visitors Must Sign In._

 _Soliciting Strictly Forbidden._

 _No Unaccompanied Goblins._

Thinking of Kuzzik, Idira smirked at the last restriction as she made her way along one of the paths through the garden, which she soon realised was comprised of crushed seashells. She eyed the numerous other paths, criss-crossing the garden all along the length of the enormous reception hall, trying to comprehend just how many seashells had been sacrificed to create the garden. She couldn't. The amount would have been stupefying.

She reached the desk. She had to wait a long time before one of the staff members finally glanced up from their work. A thin, ginger-haired man came over, harried, wiping his hands against the front of his robes.

"Yes?"

"I have been sent by the Lady Margot to speak to the Director on Duty?" she explained, hesitant.

The staffer raised his eyebrows at hearing Margot's name. "That'll be me today," he muttered, though he didn't sound too happy about it. "What's the message?"

"She says I have been sent for archival duty?" she answered, uncertain, hoping it wasn't going to turn out to be as bad as it sounded.

The Director nodded and turned away to pick up something. A plain, leather bound ledger landed on the counter between them. No gilt, no gold, completely ordinary. She stared at it, enjoying the sudden, unexpected uniqueness of it. He patted his robes, sighed, and waved his hand, impatient. A stylus appeared between his fingers. He opened the ledger and went through the usual questions, Idira's name, her dorm address, her tutor's name, date of registration, etc. Then: "And how long is your punishment for?"

"Punishment?" Idira asked, perplexed. "She said I would be working here since I was learning too fast."

"Learning too fast?" The Director asked, taken aback. He shook his head. "No, you must have misunderstood, no one is ever punished for advancing quickly, rather it is rewarded. And certainly none but the most offensive crimes are punished by archival duty. How long?" he asked again, impatient, waving away another staffer who approached him holding a bundle of papers in her hands, a questioning look in her eyes.

"Um. Indefinitely?" Idira answered, biting her lip, suddenly beginning to understand the gravity of her situation.

The Director looked up at her, astonished. "Really? In all my life I have never heard of that before."

Idira nodded, glum.

He glanced from side to side before leaning forward, curious. "I must know. What did you do?"

"I'm not sure," Idira answered, sincere, "but I think it's because I found a book out of the thousands in the stacks the first time I tried. The exact one we needed, I mean."

For a beat the Director stared at her, incredulous and obviously impressed. A flicker passed over his face, and his look melted into resentment. He pulled back, his expression hardening. "So you're one of _those_ ones," he muttered as he wrote the length of her punishment in the ledger. "Should have suspected it sooner, with unnatural eyes like yours. You know it's not even supposed to be possible to be human and have eyes that colour. You're a . . . what's the word again? Oh yes, an anomaly." He slapped the book shut. "Never mind. We don't tolerate liars here in Dalaran, not for a minute. I can see why the good Lady Margot has come down hard on you."

"I'm not—" Idira protested, thinking Margot was anything but good, but the Director held up his hand, stopping her.

"Don't speak," he said, cold. "Just follow me. Let's get you settled in, shall we?"

She was told the Archives were right at the back end of the Library, accessed through a locked door and then down three flights of stairs. When the Director, whose name she discovered was Duncan, found out she hadn't even learned the most basic of spells—not even Blink, a basic teleportation spell—he grumbled to himself, complaining he would have to show her the way on foot, warning her they were going to be in for a long walk. He hadn't exaggerated. The library was vast. She had thought the library where she and her fellow apprentices were studying was enormous. No more. That library amounted to the size of a thimble compared to the interior of the tower soaring away above her, at least a hundred levels high, each level containing corridors radiating away like the spokes of a wheel, their hubs a circular balcony overlooking the Library's great tree-lined court at the base of the tower. She tilted her head back, losing her balance as she gazed up into the tower's impossible heights, the perspective diminishing with distance.

"How many books are there here?" she asked, breathless, thinking perhaps her punishment wasn't so bad after all.

"Somewhere in the vicinity of half a billion," Duncan shrugged. "Well, at the last count, at least." He sighed. "The trouble is some of them, _ahem_ , multiply, which isn't always a good thing. We have a special room for _those_ books, when we can catch them. We painted it red and call it the red room. After a week in there they never misbehave again."

"Half a billion!?" Idira gasped, euphoric. "So many books, and all in one place. It's like a dream. Wait. A red room? What? Like the colour of blood?" She shuddered, horrified by the thought.

Duncan nodded as he fished in his robe for the key to open the door at the back of the Library. "Interesting story," he said as he led the way down the stairs inside; wide, marble, plush blue carpet running down the centre of them. "One time a very strange book came through one of the inter-dimensional portals. I remember it took quite a long time to translate the thing only to find out it was really rather awful, extremely badly written, and no magic in it at all. We thought since it was so terribly bad at being a book, we would name the punishment room after the room they were so fascinated about in the book. We put up a bookshelf in the room and chained our misbehaving books on the same bookshelf as book, something about the colour grey as I recall."

They arrived at the bottom of the stairs. The space opened out to a large room. Desks and chairs stood stacked against one of the walls and a very plain, unassuming door waited for them at the far end. He went to the door and unlocked it, continuing, "Though no one really understands the principles behind it, after a week on the same shelf as that book our books are more than willing to do as they're told and never act up again. Seems they never want to go near it or that room again. Quite a useful book, after all, even if it reads like it was written by a teenaged goblin in heat."

He opened the door. Idira followed him into a low-ceilinged, wide corridor, the walls and ceilings painted white. The corridor curved away into the distance, presumably following the contour of the Library's foundation. A lone, bare desk stood in front of ten identical rows of metal racks, their shelves filled with labelled boxes. The racks stretched away down the corridor like long, endless fingers.

"So here we are," Duncan said, rubbing his hands together, "and just in time, too. The last offender finished their duties last week, so we were in need of a replacement." He handed her the key ring with the two keys. "You'll be needing these, since you can't portal. I hope you own something sturdier than those flimsy slippers because you are going to be doing a lot of walking from now on."

He turned to leave. Idira caught his sleeve. "Wait! What do I do? What time am I to be here, things like that?"

"Oh, yes," Duncan nodded. He glanced at the racks, clearly impatient to leave. "Well, you will receive requests to find documents. You collect them up and take them to whomever the request came from. That's all really. Sometimes the request will also ask for books, too. You get those from the Library stacks, but you need to come to the front desk and show us the request so someone can fetch them since you aren't allowed into the stacks."

Idira looked around the space, shivering a little in the oppressive space. She would be completely alone. "How do—"

"The requests arrive?" he asked, finishing her question for her as he began to cast a portal to return to the Main Reception. "They arrive on your desk, through very small portals. Oh and the hours. 7am to 7pm. Don't be late. Lunch is between 11am and 1pm, the cafeteria is in the reception hall. I'll leave a badge for you to collect at the Reception Desk so you don't have to pay. Staff perk. And don't read anything from the racks, it's forbidden for apprentices."

Idira opened her mouth to ask him where the facilities were but he had already stepped into his portal, and was gone. She turned and looked at the racks. The corridor yawned away. She glanced at the desk. No. She wasn't going to sit with her back to all that space. She didn't even know how long the corridor was. It was possible it encircled the entire foundation, ending on the other side of the stairs outside the door. She hoped not, if she had to fetch something from that distance, it would be a terribly long walk.

Grabbing hold of the edge of the desk, she turned it round, its claw-shaped feet scraping, loud against the stone-flagged floor, setting her teeth on edge. She pulled the chair around after her and sat down, facing the racks. Better. She'd rather have the door to her back than all that uncharted space. She folded her hands on the desk, thinking about her new situation, wondering if she could bring books from the Apprentices' Library down here with her to study while she worked.

A shimmering, the size of a lunch plate, appeared under her hands on the surface of the desk. She snatched her hands away, startled. As quick as it came, it vanished, leaving behind a piece of parchment, containing a list of documents written out and where to deliver them. She stared at the letters and numbers following the documents, realising she had no idea how the organisation system of the archives worked. She picked up the parchment, crisp, expensive, the ink still wet, and perused the fascinating list:

 _A Treatise on the Containment of Fel. by Kel'thuzad DLA451.887,01-K_

 _A Brief History of Azeroth, the First Years. by Brann Bronzebeard LS78620. FF5-89_

 _An Essay on the Wars of the Titans, What Went Wrong. by Evelyna DLA674.902,73-E_

The titles went on, a dozen of them, she skimmed through them until:

 _Yr Three Final Paper, Free Choice Subject:_

 _Arcane Mastery in the Bedroom, the Fine Line Between Pleasure and Pain and How to Maintain it. by J. Proudmoore DLA334.621,77-P_

Suppressing a smile at the previous Leader of the Kirin Tor's choice of subject, Idira moved through the racks, working through the complex organisation system. After a few minutes, she realised it wasn't going to be as difficult to decipher as she had expected, in fact, the system turned out to be quite elegant. DLA meant Dalaran Archive, while LS stood for Library Stacks, the next trick she discovered was to read the code from the back to the front. Once she found the rack with the correct first letter (after the dash), she then took the number after the full stop, then the last three digit number.

She found all the documents must faster than she expected with the added bonus of there being teleportation pads at the start of each letter. After several confusing teleports she realised she needed to face the direction she wished to go before she stood on the pad. Easy, and if she was totally honest, the teleports were quite a lot of fun. Just for the sheer pleasure of it, she decided to take the teleports all the way to the end. At the letter _M_ she discovered a magical broom sweeping the floor. She dropped her files, utterly astonished, startling the poor thing, sending it scuttling away, frightened. When Idira didn't do anything more, the broom returned to its work, cautious. Idira watched it for several minutes, fascinated, before carrying on, wondering what other wonders she might discover. (Unfortunately, only more brooms).

As she made her return trip through the archive portals, her arms filling up with neatly bound documents, she decided her punishment could have been much worse. Even though she knew she shouldn't, she took a quick peek at Jaina's paper while she walked up the stairs from the archive hall, curiosity driving her mad, but it made no sense at all, it was nothing but formulas, pages and pages of it. Nothing like she'd hoped to read. She sighed and turned the key in the lock and went out into the Library to start the long walk back to the reception desk, and onwards out into the parks, halls, corridors and offices of the vast Academy of Dalaran, strangely happy, though she really couldn't have said why.

* * *

Idira's feet hurt. She slid her shoes off and rubbed her aching soles against the soft, thick carpet. It helped, a little at least. Despite clinging to his belief that she was probably a liar, Duncan had warmed to her. After several days of enduring her pleading, he had finally relented and started casting portals for her to the Apprentices' Library once her day at the archives ended.

"Learn to make teleports," he said, just like he did every time he cast the portal for her.

"I would if only I could find the book," Idira smiled back, just like she did every time she departed. But it was true. She _couldn't_ find the book, despite her Light having helped her discover every one of the other books.

With a quiet sigh, she finished the last of her sandwich and folded away the wrapper, still feeling hungry. Over the course of the past two and half months, since she had been banished to the archives and more or less isolated from the rest of her peers—only seeing them occasionally as she left the mess hall, having only had just enough time to bolt down a bowl of porridge between the mess hall opening and the time she needed to leave for work—she'd lived off takeaways from the Bagel Brothers and the free lunches at the Library Cafeteria. It had become her habit to spend her lunch break running across Dalaran to buy her dinner from the busy sandwich shop, hoarding the precious parcel until the evening so she could eat while she studied in the Apprentices' Library.

The sandwich wrapper safely tucked in her pouch, she reached down and rubbed her feet while trying to take in the contents of the elaborately illustrated book in front of her, demonstrating in six simple steps the art of polymorphing someone into a sheep, rendering them harmless for a limited period of time. As she read, Idira massaged a stubborn knot on the inside of her arch, wishing for the hundredth time she could polymorph Margot forever. A part of her suspected the woman had removed the book on teleportation so Idira could never have the advantage of it while running all over the Academy delivering documents. Or perhaps, Margot had done it because she suspected Idira had told Wynn where the books they needed were hidden so her fellow apprentices couldn't progress their own educations.

It had been a tricky arrangement at first, but it seemed to be working, Wynn made sure the right book lay hidden in amongst a clutter of wrong ones spread across the table, each of them surreptitiously studying it one at a time, making notes so they could practice what they'd learned back in their dorm rooms. Never again had any of them made the mistake of showing their progress in front of Margot. Failures, on the other hand, they made sure she saw plenty. Even Asur had kept his attitude in check, which considering how insufferable the arrogant know-it-all was to live with was perhaps the greatest accomplishment of all.

With the exception of Asur, Idira did miss the company of her peers. Apart from a quick hello at breakfast, she rarely saw them anymore, her lonely work in the archives and her studies in the evenings consuming all of her time and energy. Although last night when she had returned, drooping, to her bed, Wynn had been waiting up, excited to show Idira her mastery of the conjuring of refreshment, which was good because Idira was starving. Wynn made her a cinnamon bun. It was delicious, but then she couldn't sleep for hours. A magical perk for those fighting in battle, not so great for those wanting the oblivion of dreams.

She rubbed her eyes, fatigue dogging her, and reread the last portion, realising she had taken nothing in at all. She read it again, and still couldn't remember any of it. She sighed and closed the book. A glance at the clock told her it was still too early to leave, she'd only been studying for two hours. She looked around the room, only two others remained in the Library, another apprentice buried deep in a pile of books and one of the senior students, a mentor, covering desk duty, reading a novel, neither of them remotely interested in her. Just for a few minutes she would rest her head, it couldn't hurt, then she could study some more. She folded her arms in front of her and lay her head down. Within heartbeats she was asleep, dreaming of nothing.

A shove woke her. She looked up, bleary and disoriented. "What the—?"

"Library's closing," the senior student muttered, casting a portal for her. Idira barely had time to ram the book onto a shelf, grab her shoes and get into the portal before it winked out. She stepped out into the quadrangle inside the residential towers, warm evening air washing over her, heavy with the scent of hibiscus. As the senior student hurried away to his bed, she sank down onto a nearby bench and pulled on her shoes, her neck and shoulders aching from sleeping crooked. She rubbed her face, feeling worse than she had before she fell asleep. She sighed. A whole evening of studying, lost. She looked around the deserted area, glum. She was far behind the others, even Asur, who was the dimmest of the lot was racing ahead of her. She didn't have the time or the energy she needed to keep up. She signed, resigned. Margot was winning after all. Despite her best efforts, Idira was going to get expelled. But then again, if she didn't find the book on teleportation on time, they would all fail.

For the thousandth time, she wondered, bleak, how she would ever fulfil her dream and meet Khadgar. She looked up at the towering Citadel, its massive bulk dominating the glowing skyline. Rising up through the clouds, the windowless tower shimmered with ethereal blue light. Every now and again a current of arcane energy streaked along its length.

She eyed the thing, morose. Khadgar was in there, somewhere, both as near as a heartbeat and as far as another planet. Shut up in the Academy, she might as well still be on the farm in Westfall for all that coming to Dalaran had brought her nearer to him. The man lived in a world she couldn't begin to comprehend. Yet despite the impossible divide looming between them, every day Idira nourished the hope that a request for documents from the city's seat of power would materialise on her desk. Every day she locked up the archive hall, disappointed.

Since she started her duties, she felt like she had discovered every nook and cranny of the Academy; out of the way experimental labs, crooked corridors in the rafters of the towers, even a strange dome-shaped observatory hulking down in a large clearing of Dalaran's Park. When she asked what they did there, she was told the mages monitored the movements of the stars in the sky, searching for the anomalies in their movements which might indicate inter-dimensional warps. Fascinated, she stayed as long as she could, listening to the talkative blood-elf woman at the reception desk explain the details of how inter-dimensional warps worked and how badly the Kirin Tor wished to harness one in the hopes it might help in the fight against the Legion. Idira had had no idea such a thing was possible, the ability to watch the stars or harness warps of space and time. When the receptionist had to return to her duties, Idira left, her mind filled with impossible thoughts and her arms full of new documents to file back into their places in the archive. There was so much the Kirin Tor could do, so much she wanted to learn, but because of one woman's hatred, she spent her days running around, footsore and exhausted, carrying heavy books to and fro, learning nothing at all, except how political, petty and divided the city of Dalaran really was.

She gazed awhile longer at the Citadel, willing someone from within to send for her, just once. _Please,_ she thought, using the last of her energy to force her thoughts out into the Nether. S _end for me. Let me see Khadgar before my time runs out and Margot sends me away. Please. Don't let my dream only have been just a dream._

* * *

The next morning, almost as soon as Idira took her seat in the archive hall, the familiar shimmering of a portal blossomed on her desk. She watched, grumpy and resigned, wondering what far flung part of the Academy she would have to drag herself to this time. She picked up the card, vaguely noticing it felt heavier than the others she had received. The handwriting was different too, a beautiful calligraphy, and the card's edges bore fat borders of gold curlicues. She rolled her eyes. Typical Dalaran excess. It was a long list, and mostly books from the stacks. She scoffed, bitter. How in the Void was she supposed to carry so many books all by her—

She reached the bottom of the card. No. It couldn't be. She looked at it again, incredulous. Unable to stop herself she jumped up out of her chair and did a little happy dance. The Council of Six finally had need of her services. She was going to the Citadel! She stopped dancing and looked down at herself, her joy sliding away in a torrent of shame. Today was laundry day. She had left her violet dress on her bed for collection and worn the only other dress she owned, the faded one from Westfall. She slumped down onto her chair, defeated. Typical. Just typical.

* * *

Before she even reached the vast staircase leading up to the main entrance of the Violet Citadel, Idira was already exhausted. She struggled under the weight of nine fat tomes, barely able to see the way ahead. Dodging yet another self-absorbed Dalaran citizen shoving his way through the press, she managed to cling onto the books without dropping them. Back when she'd started, Duncan had warned her just before she made her first delivery that dropping books was a very serious offence, the punishment so dire, he wouldn't even say it, but the certainty of expulsion afterwards was guaranteed.

Halfway up the staircase, she huddled against the wall, leaning against it, trying to catch her breath. She was beginning to see spots in front of her eyes and her arms ached so much, they were starting to go numb. The Citadel looked so close when one looked at it from the Academy, but she was beginning to realise its magical aura distorted the sense of distance from it. In fact, the tower was halfway across the city from the Academy. She staggered up the remaining stairs, counting as she went, to distract herself from the burning sensation of pins and needles in her shoulders. Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five. The staircase finally ended. Trying not to stagger, she crossed the large courtyard and approached the outer gates, her arms quaking with fatigue.

"Halt!" A hand on her arm, holding her back. "You must have documentation to enter."

Idira peeked around the stack of books at the guard bearing down her, fierce. She sighed and knelt, setting the books down with great care onto the polished floor tiles. She opened the cover of the top book and held out the card with the order. The guard took it and looked it over, dubious, calling over one of the other guards to check it. Surreptitiously, Idira rubbed the circulation back into her arms, secretly grateful for the chance to rest while the other guard inspected the card.

"Everything looks in order," he said, "though why the Library would send _that_ disgrace into the High Council's Chamber is beyond me." They stood, side by side, eyeing her, disdainful. Self-conscious, Idira tugged at her skirt, straightening it.

"Go on then," the first guard said, looking away. "They're waiting."

"How do I find them?" Idira asked as she knelt and gathered up the books again, her arms screaming in protest.

The guards rolled their eyes at each other. The second one jerked his head at the open glass doors of the tower's entrance. "Just keep going straight up the stairs, the Chamber is right in the middle. Even an idiot couldn't miss it. Then again, _you_ might." They laughed, mean as she walked away. "Have you ever seen such a thing?" the first one said, making his voice loud enough so she would be sure to hear. " _Purple_ eyes, and that raggedy dress, where did she find that? In the sewers? People like her don't belong here. Hope the Council sends her back to whatever hole she crawled out from."

Her cheeks burning with humiliation, Idira pushed on, her arms trembling under the renewed weight of the heavy leather and brass bound tomes, unable to take in the splendour surrounding her, thinking only of putting one foot in front of the other, fighting the heaviness spreading through her arms, willing herself not to drop the books before she reached her destination.

She made it to the top of the stairs and was just about to cross the threshold into the Council chambers when her arms rebelled and gave out. She bit back a cry, despairing, as the books tumbled down around her, their brass bindings clattering onto the vestibule's marble floor, the noise drowned out by the shouts of a heated argument coming from the centre of the Chamber. Falling to her knees, she hurried to gather up the books, keeping her head down, tears blurring her eyes. It was all over for her now. She was going to be expelled. She would never meet Khadgar, everything she had lived for and suffered through would come to nothing. She thught of Logan and Unambi, of their sacrifices made for her and her Light. Shame piled onto her. She had failed them, utterly. Anger seared through her. Why hadn't her arms lasted just one minute more. _Why?_

But no one came to her, and no one shouted at her. She fell back onto her haunches and peeked up from under her lashes, waiting for her berating, but apart from herself, the only others she could see in the Chamber were five men and one woman, though they stood at a great distance from her. They all had high-backed, elaborately carved chairs, but none of them were sitting. They stood around a vast circular table set in the middle of the room upon a raised platform, the table glowing with arcane energy. They argued heatedly, seemingly oblivious of her grave crime. Floating in the air above the table was a rotating globe, its mountains, valleys and seas set out in realistic relief. Idira gaped, recognising the shape of the continent of the Eastern Kingdoms as the planet progressed on its slow spin. Awed, she rose to her feet, the books forgotten as she realised she was looking at a globe of the world. Of Azeroth.

She gazed at it, entranced. Back on the farm in Westfall, she had spent plenty of time absorbing the flattened maps tucked within the covers of her books, but to see the whole world, seamless, a planet, in such breathtaking detail was like a dream; she felt her perspectives shifting, her mind opening, broadening as she envisaged herself no longer on a flat world, but a spherical one.

The Archmages continued to argue, though their shouts had subsided. She listened, curious. They spoke in a language she didn't understand. She followed the strange words, intrigued, hearing for the first time the language only the Council of Six knew and used, a High Arcane dialect she had been told by Duncan during one of his more sociable moments was called Tirisian, the inscrutable words laden with magic, cloaking their words from both prying ears, and spies.

She searched for Khadgar. There. Her heart thudded. He stood on the left side of the table, the seat back of his chair slighter higher and wider than the others. One of the others was speaking now, passionately, a man wearing dark red robes, waving his arm towards the globe, but Khadgar turned away, shaking his head, his expression tight, his hands curling into fists. He leaned forward and rested his weight on the table, addressing the others again, his tone adamant and unbending. She wondered what they were arguing about.

"You look like you could use a little help," a small voice piped beside Idira's ear. Idira turned, startled. A female gnome, her blond hair braided and curled up into buns on the sides of her head stood beside Idira, green eyes twinkling. She held out her hand. "I'm Chromie. Pleased to meet you. You better hurry, soon they will notice you and it won't go well for you if they see all their books on the floor."

Idira took the pretty gnome's hand and shook it. "Idira Northshire," she answered, shy, eyeing her, curious. There was something about the gnome. Idira couldn't quite place it, but something wasn't as it seemed with her, it wasn't bad, though it wasn't quite right either. She reminded Idira of the Citadel, in the way the building distorted her perception of space, it felt like being near the diminutive gnome distorted Idira's perception of _time_. She glanced back at the group of Archmages, the woman, Archmage Modera had just begun to turn around, though her eyes were on one of the other Archmages, the one Idira guessed was Kalec from his blue hair. She stood still as statue, as did all the others, frozen in time, a tableau. Idira turned back to Chromie, gaping.

"Did you do that?" she breathed.

"I know who you are," Chromie said, businesslike as she picked up the books and handed them to Idira, who took them, her gaze darting back to the Archmages, astonished, incredulous. "I've covered for you this time," the gnome continued, brusque, "but next time, try not to drop the books if you don't mind. There's only so much someone like me can do. They have satchels at the Library they can lend you. Next time ask for one."

Idira took the last book and thanked the gnome, who nodded and smiled. "And don't heed any of the hateful talk in this place," she said, pausing, as she turned away. "You are above all of that. Far above it. You just need a little more time."

She lifted her staff. A flash of light filled Idira's eyes, and quick as a blink, the gnome was gone.

"There you are, finally!" the Archmage Modera called out, irritable. "Come in then, what are you waiting for?"

Idira realised Modera was speaking to her, behaving as though Idira had only just arrived. Her heart soaring with relief for what the little gnome had done for her, Idira crossed the distance to the platform and waited, unsure where to put the books.

"Here, leave them beside me," Modera snapped, impatient, pointing at a cleared space beside her, her voice raised over the others who continued to bicker in Tirisian. "I haven't all day."

Keeping her head down, Idira climbed the three steps up onto the platform and approached the table. Gently, ever so gently she lowered the books onto the shimmering blue surface and backed away. Modera turned her back to Idira, rifling though the pile of books for the one she wanted first. She opened it, her finger running down the lines, her eyes darting back and forth, seeking, hungry.

Unable to stop herself, Idira glanced at Khadgar, hoping to catch his eye, but he had sat back down and was staring at the table, deep in thought. With only Modera between them, Idira was so close to him she could see the rise and fall of his tunic as he breathed. Her heart quavered as she drank in the nearness of him, sensing his strength and charisma, his deep history of experience; a true warrior-mage, his powerful presence filling the room, leaving the others in his shadow, despite their much more elaborate robes and headpieces.

How she longed to touch him. Her heart aching, she looked at the man who had occupied most of her life, staring down at the table, as lost to her as though he were still on another planet. _Please. Look at me,_ she begged him, silent. An inner tug pulled on her, once, twice, coming from the centre of the table, distracting her. A third tug and a judder surged through her torso, so sharp and sudden it left her breathless. A heartbeat later the globe of Azeroth flared to life, gleaming as bright as a star. Streamers of light the same colour as her own erupted from its core and darted, chaotic around the sphere, dozens of them, their numbers increasing until the globe seethed with her Light, a living thing, glowing so bright the whole Chamber turned violet. The Archmages rose to their feet, astonished, all of them apart from Khadgar talking, excited, though nothing they said was remotely comprehensible to Idira.

Idira backed away, watching Khadgar, willing him to look at her, to recognise in her the violet-imbued child he had seen when he was trapped on another planet, walking in that faraway city, but he didn't. He gazed at the shining globe, silent, brooding, and lost to his thoughts, blind both to her and her Light.

* * *

She didn't have to wait long for her next summons. She had just returned to the archives, reeling with disappointment, footsore and hungry, when the next request came in. By the look of the books on the list, the Council wished to know everything they could about what could have caused the flaring of violet light. She groaned. Twelve books this time and as many more documents from the archives. She would definitely need a satchel this time, maybe two.

The satchels helped, but not much. She still had to carry eight of the books in her aching, trembling arms and the additional weight of a satchel over each shoulder, the straps crossing her chest like a pack horse, made her neck and shoulders burn, hot as a forge's fire. She had just staggered up the seventy-five steps and through the main entrance into the front hall, ignoring the sneers and taunts of the guards when a stunning, green-haired night elf dressed in a shimmering silver and white gown rode past on a giant sabre-toothed cat, the claws of its enormous paws clacking against the marble tiles. The woman was so astonishing, so beautiful, fierce and uncommon, that Idira couldn't help but stare as she walked. She had never, in all her life, neither in her fairytale books or in Stormwind or Dalaran ever seen such a beautiful woman. She looked like a goddess. She looked like—

A sharp pain in exploded from Idira's hip as she clipped her hip bone against the corner of a table. She cried out, letting go of the precious books to clasp her side, biting her lip against the jagged waves of pain shearing through her, rough like broken glass. The books clattered to the floor, causing a terrible racket. In her haze of agony, she caught the woman on the cat glancing at her, her expression filled with cold disdain. Other mages came running, helping to gather up the fallen books, all of them looking at Idira with disgust. Her cheeks flamed. Now it was really over. There was no gnome to save her this time. Guards came forward, taking hold of her, the offender, while others took the satchels from her, to carry her delivery the rest of the way. Three of them struggling to do the job she had been left to do alone.

She watched them walk up the stairs to the Council Chamber, following after the night elf riding her sabre-toothed cat, the mages patting the books, reverent, checking them for damage. The guards pulled her arms, yanking her backwards, back out into the sunlight, and across the city like a criminal, delivering her to Duncan, reporting what she had done in the most censorious tones.

Duncan nodded, his cheeks aflame, enduring their loud, scathing accusations of his obvious inability to do his duty. When they were gone, Idira found herself hustled away by the Library guards back to her room and warded inside. Despite her frantic questions, no one told her anything.

She was left alone to wait. Food and drink arrived three times a day, and a covered chamber pot left was for her to use to relieve herself, replaced once a day by one of the mute servants. For three days she waited, pacing, claustrophobic, barely sleeping or eating, her heart and mind filled with terror and regret, imagining terrible things. She fretted constantly, even in her snatched moments of exhausted sleep, she continued stewing in her dreams, dwelling on the same question: why had she allowed herself to become distracted by the night elf? Over and over she wished for the chance to go back and relive the moment. Each time she imagined herself doing her task right, paying attention to where she was going and not hitting her hip so she could deliver the books and give Khadgar another chance to see her. But it was too late for all that now. She had crossed the line and there was no going back. She would never see Khadgar again. There would be no balcony, there would only be a portal back to Stormwind, or perhaps, even worse, to the middle of nowhere.

On the evening of her third day of confinement, her door opened. Idira looked up startled, it wasn't the usual time for either her meals or the changing of her chamber pot. She stood up, trembling, her dread spiking. Now it was coming. Margot walked in, looking like the cat that got the cream, her dark blue gown, covered with silver embroidery shimmered in the lowering light of the sun. Her mouth twisted with disgust. Idira suppressed a smile at her own small triumph. Even if she had long become inured to the stink of fear and bodily excretions, the narrow room probably smelled worse than an outhouse during a Westfall summer. She hoped it deeply offended her pampered tormenter.

"Come with me," Margot said, lifting her hand over her mouth and nose as she moved back out into the fresher air in the corridor. Idira followed, eyeing the other woman's gown, keenly aware of her own dishevelment. She longed for a bath and her violet dress which, unsurprisingly had never been returned to her from the laundry.

Once out in the hallway, Margot cast a quick spell and wash of arcane light swept over Idira, as cold as a gust of sea air. She looked down at herself, and saw that whatever Margot had done had cleaned Idira up as well as if she had gone and spent an hour scrubbing herself clean in the bath.

Without saying another word, Margot cast a portal. As she waited, Idira glanced at Wynn's door, but it was firmly closed, as were all the others, the corridor deathly silent. Somehow Idira suspected her colleagues had been warned not to come out until Idira was removed. Her heart sank. She would have liked to see Wynn at least one last time to say goodbye.

The portal swirled open, shimmering. "After you," Margot smirked, triumphant. "The Archmage Modera is waiting. She knows all about your _demon-slaying light_ and has expressed a great interest in being the one to personally expel you not just from the Kirin Tor, but Dalaran, permanently. She, like me is very keen to keep lying filth like you from our pristine, noble city." Margot waved her hand towards the portal, her eyes narrowing, malicious. "Shall we?"

Resigned, Idira stepped through the portal. She looked up, her heart juddering to a halt. Khadgar sat at a desk going through a vast pile of papers. He glanced up, distracted, as Margot appeared. He turned back to his papers, saying nothing.

"Oh! I'm sorry to disturb you Archmage," Margot said, hastening to cast her portal spell again, "it seems I have cast to the wrong address."

Nothing happened. "I don't understand," she muttered, trying again, her cheeks colouring with embarrassment.

"Ah, it's the disbursement of magic caused by the anomaly in the Council Chamber," Khadgar said, his attention on one of the papers he held in his hand. "For the last three days it's been redirecting all sorts of things to me that ought to be going elsewhere. It even gets past my wards." He glanced up again, brief. "Who have you got there? An apprentice? I could use some help here if you don't mind."

Idira caught her breath. She waited, aching with hope, hardly even daring to breathe. Margot blinked, taken aback. She swallowed and nodded, unable to gainsay the Leader of the Kirin Tor.

"Leave her with me for an hour or so," he continued as he rifled through the piles, looking like he was searching for something. From one of the heaps, several papers slipped free and drifted down onto the thick rug. He leaned over the edge and picked them up. He sighed. "Once we've gotten on top of this mess I will send her back to you at the Academy."

Her expression stiff, Margot backed out of the room. As she pulled the door closed behind her, she shot Idira a cold, warning look, the message clear. _Don't try anything funny._

The door closed. Idira glanced behind her and saw the balcony, the exact one she had dreamed of twenty long years ago, where she had stood with Khadgar as he looked at her the way she had seen VanCleef look at Myra. Her heart pounding, she smoothed down her dress, and waited.


	19. Chapter 17

**CHAPTER 17**

* * *

"Right," Khadgar said, distracted, as he swept half the paperwork across his desk toward Idira. "I need a stack for the Horde, and another for the Alliance. Anything from King Anduin's office and the Warchief Sylvanas must be at the top. After that—" he leaned across the desk and grabbed a stack teetering on the edge and squashed them down on top of Idira's pile, "—matters of strategy, requests for support, calls for meeting with the Council." He stood up, his hands on his hips eyeing the two heaps, his and hers. He put a few more onto Idira's pile. He glanced up, barely looking at her. "Once you've done that, then just use your discretion to sort the rest by priority. Have you got that . . . I apologise, where are my manners, what is your name?"

"Idira Northshire," Idira whispered, unable to stop herself from watching him as he talked—absorbed in the papers in his hand, utterly oblivious to the torrent of emotions rushing through her—his warm, resonant voice sending a delicious cascade of thrills down her spine. She moved nearer to the desk. His scent enveloped her; leather, smoky earth, spices, cedar.

"Idira," he repeated, in that voice of his, making her knees weak. "Wine?" he asked, lifting the pitcher on his desk to fill his silver cup. He turned to look at her. Idira nodded, lowering her eyes, unable to meet his, suddenly excruciatingly, painfully shy. From under her lashes, she watched him conjure another silver cup and pour their drinks, his movements precise, elegant. He handed her the cup. She took it, careful not to touch him, noticing his strong, well-shaped masculine hand, his nails cut square and short. She sipped, suppressing a smile. Wynn would approve.

The wine was excellent. Better than anything she had ever tasted before. She sighed a little as she set it aside.

"Good, isn't it?" Khadgar murmured as he went to get a chair for her to sit at the side of his desk. "One of the perks of being in the Council. Don't tell anyone I let you have some. It can be our little secret."

At the thought of sharing a secret with him, Idira felt her cheeks begin to flame. She ducked her head and nodded, letting her hair fall down to shield her face, grateful for the seat he was pushing under her.

He rubbed his hands together, eyeing the mess of papers littering his vast desk. "Well then," he sighed, "shall we get to work?"

From under her lashes, she watched him as he sat down and picked up a handful of documents, his brow furrowing as he sorted through them, preoccupied. He was so close to her. Close enough to touch. A wild, reckless tremor shuddered through her, leaving her giddy. No. It was too good to be true. She had to be dreaming, still confined within her room. She slipped her hand to her thigh and pinched it, hard. A bolt of pain shot through her leg. Just to be sure, she pinched herself again, really hard this time, biting back a cry as a fresh arc of bruising pain sliced through her. She rubbed the sore spot, her heart taking flight, soaring, triumphant, incredulous. She was really here, with _him_. Alone. Another delicious tremor shot through her as she lifted one of the papers nearest her and stared at the page. She darted a quick look at him, just to reassure herself he was really there, in the flesh. He took a sip of wine, studying a document, his jaw tense as he swallowed. He set aside the paper and picked up another one, cutting an oblique glance at her as he did so. She hastened to look down at the papers in her hands, furrowing her brow, feigning concentration. They were upside down. Mortified, she peeked up, but he hadn't noticed. His eyes raked over the new document, his expression sliding from tense to severe as he read. She sensed a slight change in atmosphere. Whatever he was reading was making him angry. She wondered what it was.

Khadgar set the document aside and took another sip of wine. He continued to look at the words written on it as he ran his hand through his hair, distracted. His silver hair loosened from its neat combing, tousling over his brow, giving his appearance a younger, roguish air. Idira caught her breath, watching him, surreptitious, the expressive curve of his lips and brow betraying the truth: underneath the warrior's hardened exterior lived a poet's unsatisfied yearning for truth, justice and perhaps, at times, beauty.

He might be twice her age, but he was still ridiculously attractive with his square jaw, rough from several days' worth of stubble. His regal nose, once broken and reset slightly to the right, added rather than detracted from his appearance, while his left cheek bore a pair of scars, diagonal slices, silver against his skin. Yet despite his undeniable charisma and presence, he seemed completely unaware of himself and the effect he could have on others. Her heart pounding, Idira forced herself to look down at her pile of papers. He was going to think she was dull witted if she didn't make any progress. She skimmed the paper in her hand, reading through it four times before the words finally made it through the haze of her tumbling emotions; a request for aid from the Horde side. She set it aside. The next was a Horde request as well. Four more documents passed through her hands before she was able to start a stack for the Alliance.

It didn't take long for her to become absorbed in her work; the horrifying things she read—things meant only for Khadgar's eyes—showed her a far different reality to the world she had been cocooned in for the last three months. Azeroth was falling apart fast, the factions were still at each others' throats over the death of King Varian; the Legion's power had spread from the Broken Shore into Suramar City, hundreds were dying every day—she stopped, stunned by what she read in the next piece. The commander of the Legion's forces, the orc Gul'dan, the one who had killed Varian, was creating an avatar for the dark titan Sargeras, the brutal leader of the Legion, using the stolen body of the Betrayer Illidan. If Gul'dan wasn't stopped, Azeroth would be annihilated by Sargeras. She had heard enough in the last three months to know what the fiery dragon had done to Stormwind would be nothing in comparison to what the Lord of the Legion intended to do. Aeons ago, Sargeras had become obsessed by a warped sense of duty, Void-bent on ridding all life from the universe. The receptionist at the observatory said the astronomers could see the path of destruction he'd left in his wake. An endless wall of nothing, no worlds, no stars, no moons. Nothing.

Time was short, and no one seemed to have a plan, rather, it seemed everyone clamoured for Khadgar to provide the solutions. Grim, she continued her work, her months in the archives paying off as she worked through the documents, preparing them in the order he wished.

She kept waiting for an interruption, more misdirected portals, or visitors coming to speak to the Kirin Tor's Leader, but none came, and they remained blissfully undisturbed, working alone together in the studied quiet of his office. He had said the anomaly in the Council chamber had been redirecting things to him for the past three days. She hardly dared to think it, but what if her Light had sent her to him? She shivered, delighted by the thought.

As she finished her work, Khadgar sighed and leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. He stared down at a letter in front him, troubled. He reached for his wine and drank what was left, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth as he set the empty cup aside. Idira lifted the wine pitcher and approached him, shy. She tilted it over the cup, refilling his wine, concentrating so as not to spill a drop.

He glanced up at her. "Idira, isn't it?" he asked. He sounded tired.

Clutching the pitcher against her chest, she looked down at the carpet and nodded, experiencing a fresh thrill of pleasure. Despite a crushing burden of world-shattering demands occupying his mind, he had remembered her name. She backed away, replacing the pitcher to its rightful place, grateful for the way her hair—still hanging loose from her long confinement—concealed her face from his gaze.

He got up and carried his wine out onto the balcony. She watched him walk away, her heart aching with longing, drinking in the sight of his powerful silhouette outlined against the light of the setting sun. He turned, abrupt, as though he could sense her eyes on him. Embarrassed, she hurried to look away, gazing around the office, feigning curiosity, hoping he hadn't seen her looking at him. She glanced back at him, catching him watching her, a flicker of a smile catching at the corners of his lips. He gestured for her to join him.

Her heart in her mouth, she crossed the thick carpets. It was happening, it was really happening, her dream was finally coming true. As she neared him, her heart pounded so hard, she feared he could hear it. She joined him at the railing, achingly aware of his nearness, his powerful presence surrounding her, sheltering her. She made herself concentrate on looking down at the city. The wealthiest part. Of course. At least his office wasn't as high up as her dorm room. She could even see people walking along the streets, striding along, filled with their own self-importance, wrapped up in their petty issues, judgements and avaricious social climbing, unaware that their lives were as meaningless as grains of sand in the battle yet to come.

He pointed past her towards the gryphon landing, his arm so close to her, she could feel the heat of him. "I will bet you one Dalaran copper that gryphon is going to Highmountain."

She leaned closer, her cheek brushing against the solidness of his upper arm as she sighted the gryphon he meant. It was difficult to concentrate. "No. It's going to Azsuna," she said, sensing rather than knowing its destination.

They waited, side by side, for the gryphon to decide the winner. After several heartbeats it wheeled hard to the right and dropped beneath the city's floating platform. Khadgar fished in the pocket of his tunic, a wry smile flitting over his lips. He held out a copper coin to her. "Your winnings, my lady."

"It's alright," she said, smiling a little at his gallantry. "You don't have to pay up."

"Oh? Well, that's very kind of you." With a flourish the coin became a little songbird. It sat on his finger, ruffling its blue feathers at Khadgar, indignant. Idira gazed at the little bird, astonished, a memory triggering. She had dreamed of this moment, the night Vanessa ran away, thirteen years before. She reached out and stroked the bird's soft breast, a soft smile coming to her lips, relishing the sensation of the disparate pieces of time finally knitting together, coalescing.

The bird tolerated her attention for a moment before descending into the treetops of the courtyard below. Idira watched it flit away, savouring the moment, wishing she could remain there forever, standing a heartbeat's distance away from Khadgar, surrounded by his warmth and gentleness, watching a little magical bird sing its heart out. No more struggling. No more uncertainty. No more loss.

Khadgar cleared his throat, pulling her attention back to him. "And where does your family live?" he asked, conversational, taking another sip of his wine, glancing at her, then away again, an enigmatic look crossing his face, quickly suppressed.

His question brought her thoughts to a staggering brutal halt. Her family? An image of Logan laying dead on the Broken Shore, alone, forsaken and unremembered flashed across her mind as Unambi's last words, engraved within her heart, replayed: _'It be a real honour ta be chosen as ya protecta, but Unambi got one last ting ta be doin' ta help ya be escapin' dis mess._ _Don' ya be forgettin' ol' Unambi now.'_ Her throat closed, aching, tight, the pain of her loss as raw as the day they died. She blinked, rapid, but it wasn't enough, the tears were already on their way. She brushed at her eyes, trying to be discreet. One spilled free. Humiliated, she rubbed the back of her hand across her cheek, trying to hide it.

Khadgar made quiet noise deep in his throat; his hands darted over his tunic, searching his pockets. He pulled out a clean white linen handkerchief, neatly folded, the sigil of the Kirin Tor embroidered onto it in silver thread. She took it and dabbed at her tears. They continued to escape, stubborn, silent.

Khadgar held out his wine cup. "Please," he murmured, his voice thick with regret, "take a little, it will help."

Unable to trust her voice, she nodded, her throat so tight she could barely breathe. Choking back a sob, she reached out without looking up. Her fingers touched his, sending a jolt arcing through her as her Light awakened, abrupt, exploding to life. A deep burst of energy coursed through her into him. She glanced up, astonished, catching him looking down at their hands, his brow lifting, startled. Not knowing what to say, she ducked her head, and brought the wine cup to her lips, certain now he would send her away, just like all the others.

Instead, his hand came her elbow, firm yet gentle, just like in Stormwind. He lead her to a cushioned bench. She sank down onto it, though he remained standing in front of her, rubbing his hand over the stubble on his jaw, its quiet rasp filling the balcony's quiet as he considered her. He seemed to be searching for something to say. She kept her eyes lowered, her fingers twisting around the stem of the wine cup, waiting for him to dismiss her, consoling herself with the thought that at least part of her dream had come true.

He cleared his throat. "Forgive me," he said, quiet. "I should not have pried into your life."

He leaned down, tilting his head, watching her, waiting. She looked up. Her heart juddering as his steel-grey eyes caught hers. He exhaled, slow, and took an involuntary step toward her, his expression transforming from remorse to disbelief. Her Light flared under his gaze, awakening anew, and in his eyes she glimpsed his vulnerabilities, fears, hopes, dreams.

"Archmage," she breathed, drinking in the feel of him, his power, his strength. Khadgar's eyes raked over hers, moving back and forth, rapid. She could feel him reading her, connecting to her internal state, just as she had done to his. His chest rising and falling, he took a step back, blinking hard. A veil dropped over his eyes, shutting her out. He turned away, his arms coming up, crossing over his chest, defensive.

She braced herself, knowing he would soon reject her, just like everyone else. One of the tears clinging to her lashes slipped free. She brushed it away and took a nervous sip of wine, letting its warmth spread through her, blunting the sharpest edges of her agitation, grief and dread. The silence stretched between them. She waited, her heart pounding, willing him to get it over with. Time slowed, thickening, dragging. She took another tiny sip of wine and glanced up, catching him looking at her, distant, deep in thought. She bit her lower lip, self-conscious under his perusal. His gaze drifted to her mouth, his lips parting and for a heartbeat his thoughtful look transformed into something entirely else, the heat of his gaze on her lips unexpected, sudden, intense. A shock bolted through her torso, tight and aching, her body reacting like a starving thing to his look. He caught himself and turned away again, the muscles in his jaw clenching.

An awkward silence fell. She looked down into the wine cup, fighting to pull herself back from the cliff edge Khadgar had just taken her to. She took another sip of wine, a little deeper this time, to ease the trembling in her body. He continued to look out over the city, silent and withdrawn.

"Most of my life I lived in northern Westfall, on the coast," she whispered, desperate to fill the yawning chasm widening between them. "One night, without any warning, the Legion's ships arrived. I went back to help my father, but there was no time. The demons came down from their ships, materialising everywhere, even in the house." She blinked, unable to stop several more tears from escaping. "I might have saved myself, but I lost the only one who ever really loved me." She looked down, thinking once more of Unambi, her tears falling onto her lap, staining the faded material of her threadbare blue dress.

A chair materialised in front of her. A creak of leather as Khadgar took a seat across from her, his hands sliding down his thighs to rest on his knees. Ashamed of her tears, she looked toward the Broken Shore. Thoughts of Logan slammed into her mind. She glared into the distance. The demons had taken everyone from her. How she hated them.

"I am sorry," Khadgar said, his voice low. "You have suffered a terrible loss, but you have come to the right place. We can help you. With eyes that colour, I am not surprised you have not been able to intuit how to control your powers. You are like a walking leyline, your connection is chaotic, and requires intense training."

Idira glanced at him, taken aback. "It does?"

Khadgar nodded, his expression once more thoughtful, though Idira noticed he didn't let his gaze go lower than her eyes. "How long have you been on library duty?" he asked, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers folding together.

She blinked, wondering how he could possibly know she had been working in the archives. "Ever since I arrived," she answered, puzzled by why he should care. When he raised his eyebrow, waiting for her to finish, she added, "Almost three months ago."

His lips thinned and his eyes sharpened, becoming hard as flint. He stood up so fast he knocked over the chair. It vanished just as it hit the floor. Livid, he paced the length of the balcony, striding back and forth, his fist clenched at his sides.

"From now on," he said, tight, eyeing the distant Academy narrowly, "you will study theory under my tutelage, and if she has the time, the Archmage Modera can oversee your practicals. Your book carrying days are finished, the Kirin Tor needs your abilities, now more than ever."

Idira opened her mouth to say she didn't think the Archmage Modera would agree, but Khadgar raised his hand, stopping her. He continued, seething. "In three months, with diligent study, you could have already accomplished intermediate proficiencies. A needless waste."

A knock came to the door of his office. Khadgar turned and nodded at whomever had entered, curt. He turned back to Idira as she came to her feet, hurrying to set the wine cup aside, fearing Margot had come to fetch her. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a ring. He held it out to her.

"With this," he said, watching her, intent, as she took the ring from him, "you will be granted admission to my private office in the Library where my own collection resides. Some of the books there are from Karazhan, gifted to me by Medivh. You are to begin studying immediately. The first thing I want you to learn is how to conjure food and drink. You are going to need it for the long days you have ahead of you. Also," he jerked his head in the direction of the Academy, "move your things out of the apprentice's quarters and into my office in the Library. I never use it these days anyway. I won't have you tormented for being different. For all we know, you are destined to become an Archmage. Carrying books. Bah!"

Idira gaped at him, astonished by how fast he had put the pertinent details of her situation together. He must have seen her the day she delivered the books and remembered her, though she had no recollection of him ever having even looked at her. It seemed the Leader of the Kirin Tor didn't miss much. Clutching the ring against her chest, Idira backed away from him and hurried out past the Archmages Modera and Kalec, eyeing her, curious. She kept her head down, not wanting Modera to recognise her and ruin everything.

Once out in the hall, she heard Modera ask, "What was that about?"

"Politics! Pride!" Khadgar snapped, his words coiled tight with anger and frustration. He continued, angry, as Idira hurried down the length of the corridor. "The Legion need not worry about defeating us. We are doing a good enough job of it ourselves."

* * *

Idira hurried through the Library's atrium into the cover of the garden and peered out from behind one of the trees at the front desk, praying Duncan would still be at the Main Reception. The atrium lay almost deserted. She glanced up at the clock hanging above the library's entrance, hanging suspended in thin air. Seven-thirty pm. Of course. Dinner time. She scoffed. Evening meals were a grand affair in the Academy; three courses, silver service, not that she had enjoyed very many of them, however.

Duncan popped up from behind one of the desks, looking stressed as usual. She looked for the others, but barring the guards there was no one else around, thank the Light. She had a plan, not a very good one, but it would have to do. As much as Khadgar had intuited her circumstances, he still didn't know was she was due to be kicked out of Dalaran right about now, and if Margot found her, Idira suspected it wouldn't be long before she would be shoved into the nearest portal to anywhere.

Somehow she had survived the harrowing trip back into the Academy without being detected, sneaking in through the gates without a pass card by surrounding herself in a group of students chattering about their field trip to the Citadel. But her frenetic trip across the campus had left her giddy with terror. She only had this one last hurdle and then it would be over. She would be safe within Khadgar's office.

Duncan stepped down from the Main Reception, carrying a wad of scrolls under his arm, moving in her direction.

"Duncan?" she called to him, quiet.

He looked up, distracted. His gaze fell on her. "You!" he exclaimed, marching up to her. "Do you know how much trouble you have gotten me into?"

"I'm sorry," she said, looking around, frantic, checking the guards hadn't noticed her. She held out her hand with Khadgar's ring inside and opened her fingers.

Duncan's eyes widened. "That's the ring of the Leader of the Kirin Tor," he breathed, "how did you—?"

She shushed him. "He gave it to me, just now," she whispered. "He wants me to go to his office and study his books. I need a portal up to it. Will you do it for me? Please?"

Duncan rubbed the back of his neck, uneasy. "That's a lot to ask after all that's happened lately. I mean, how do I know you didn't steal his ring? I could lose everything if I help you and you are up to something bad."

Idira slumped. "You would really believe that of me?"

"I don't know," he shrugged, though he looked uncertain. "Margot's been saying some pretty serious things about you. Word has it you're not what you seem. She says your magic isn't normal magic and you're a danger to Dalaran. You were supposed to be getting banished today. The fact you are here with that ring makes me wonder if Margot has got it right."

"A danger?" Idira spluttered, indignant, thinking of Margot's deep machinations, "talk about the pot calling the kettle black!"

Duncan lifted his brow at her outburst. He shook his head. "Don't ask me to do this, it's too dangerous. I've worked hard to get to where I am, and don't want to lose everything I've worked for because I end up on the wrong side of the fence."

"But—" Idira said, showing him the ring once more, desperate.

Duncan waved his hand at it, shooing it away. "Maybe you are telling the truth," he sighed. "I suppose what I _can_ do is go over there,"—he tilted his head in the direction he intended—"and have a look at the notice board before casting the portal I need to put these scrolls back. If you were to follow after me without my permission, that would be another matter entirely." He lowered his voice as he adjusted the scrolls under his arm, "You'll need to go up one more floor to get to his office but of course you would have known that already. Didn't hear it from me."

He turned and went to the notice board. She edged her way after him, moving through the garden until she was as close to him as she could get. She caught him glancing over his shoulder, making sure she was nearby. He cast the portal. She bolted out from the garden and tumbled out the other side, knocking Duncan into a wall.

"Run! That way!" he jerked his head in the direction she needed to go before he began yelling for help, raising the alarm.

Holding Khadgar's ring tight, she gathered up her skirts and pounded up the curving staircase. Shouts came up the stairs just as she reached the next floor. She scanned the curving walkway. No guards. Thank the Light. Along the wall were several doors, widely spaced apart, all of them closed. She ran past them reading the nameplates of the Archmages: Modera, Karlain, Ansirem. Her lungs were beginning to ache, the walkway was enormous, if only she'd been able to learn how to teleport! Ahead, a pair of wooden double doors loomed, ornately carved. She hoped those were the doors to Khadgar's office as black spots began to speckle in front of eyes. On the opposite side of the walkway, four guards burst up from the stairwell, bellowing at her to stop. A sudden blur of colour at the corner of Idira's eye made her look back. One of the doors had been thrown open. A woman strode away from Modera's office, dressed in red, her gown shimmering with rubies. Margot.

"What in the name of—?" Margot shouted. Their eyes met. "You!"

She began to cast a spell. Idira ran faster, terrified, irrationally believing if she somehow managed to get into Khadgar's office and close the doors, she would be safe. A bolt of frost fire crashed into the carpet in front of her. She bit back a cry and jumped over the blue flames incinerating the plush carpet and slammed up against the double doors, panting, her throat on fire. The nameplate read _Leader of the Kirin Tor, Archmage Khadgar_.

She pushed on the door handle. Nothing happened. The guards were closing in, their daggers drawn, further down Margot was nearing the end of another spell. A fireblast. Not good.

Frantic Idira raked her gaze over the doors, seeking the way to open them. Beside the right hand door, she spotted a little panel recessed into the wall. In its centre, highlighted in a glow of arcane energy, the reverse impression of the sigil on his ring pulsed. Her fingers shaking, she held the ring up to the panel and pressed his ring against it. The doors swung open, silent. She rushed into marble foyer, turning to shove the doors closed. They refused to budge. The pounding of feet neared, the guards had given up yelling, their silent focus somehow much more terrifying. With a cry she bolted through another pair of double doors into a large room, hoping the doors would close behind her on their own. She staggered around in a circle, Khadgar's office was massive, laid out like an apartment, with several more suites branching off the main room, all of them crammed with books. She spun around searching for a place to hide. On the opposite side of the room, a little alcove held an active portal.

The fireblast hit the spot in the foyer where she had just been, a beat later an intense wall of heat hit her, sending her stumbling backwards, her eyes watering. The guards pushed in through the billowing smoke. Margot following right after.

"Whatever you think you are doing, this stops now," she snarled lifting her hands to cast another fireblast.

Without a second thought, Idira hurled herself into the portal just as another burning wall of heat slammed into her. She rolled out the other side, disoriented. She could be anywhere. She blinked, recognising her surroundings. Of course. The portal had brought her back to the landing outside Khadgar's private office. She ran back down the corridor's length to his door, looking back just as the guards and Margot emerged from the portal, furious. She reached Khadgar's door, and pounded on it, frantic. Once he told them everything, she would be alright. No answer. The guards were running now, murder in their eyes. Margot was casting a new spell. Polymorph. No. No. No.

She beat on the door, terrified. Still no answer. The guards would be on her within heartbeats. She had no choice. She pulled on the latch, opened the door and slid inside, slamming it closed behind her. She searched for a key to lock it. Nothing. She backed up, panting, watching the door, wary, expecting her pursuers to come barging in at any moment. She could hear someone jiggling the latch. Maybe they were afraid to go in without permission. She waited, hope kindling in her breast. She might be safe after all. A burst of blue light slammed through the middle of the door, spreading out, dozens of blue-tinted lightning bolts clawing at doors edges, crackling over its surface. She stared at the bolts of arcane energy as they slid over the door, harmless, fading away.

A sound came from behind her, she turned, hoping to find Khadgar. Instead she found the faint outline of a portal hanging in the air. The sound had come from the other side, what looked like a library. Curious, she went to it. Another blast of magic slammed against the door. She turned, watching the magic slither over the door and around its frame, useless, wondering if Margot was trying to attack her from outside. Perhaps she was unwilling to enter Khadgar's private office without permission. Idira didn't want to wait around to find out. Taking one last look around the room to be sure Khadgar wasn't there, she stepped into the portal, hoping with all her heart she wasn't jumping from the frying pan into the fire.

* * *

She emerged within a tower, its walls and floor made of massive ashlars of ancient stone. A tingling coursed through her as the tower's magical energy seeped into her, invigorating her, making her feel more alive than she had ever felt before. Ornate wooden bookshelves lined the tower's outer wall, following its gentle curve. Between the wall and the tower's centre, freestanding bookshelves angled inwards.

She looked up. She stood on the lowest level. Five more floors arced above her, their walkways following the curve of the tower, the walls covered in stacks crammed with thick tomes. Little bursts of arcane energy sizzled and crackled in the air, appearing and disappearing like bubbles in pot of boiling water. She looked around open-mouthed, wondering just where she was. It certainly didn't feel like Dalaran. There was no sense of politics here, or hierarchy, only magic, pure, clean unadulterated magic. She wanted to sink down onto her knees, press her hands against the floor and just drink in its power, suddenly feeling as though everything which had come before, no matter how powerful or poignant paled in comparison to what it meant to be in this place, which inexplicably felt like home. She inhaled deep, her heart aching with familiarity even though she had never known anything like it before.

Tentative, she touched one of the books nearest her, trailing her fingers down its brass and gem encrusted spine. It trembled, shivering under her touch, responding to her as though awakening from a long slumber. She smiled, her fear and terror during her escape from Dalaran's Library fading away. She had found her touchstone, her home. She never wanted to leave. She took a step forward, reaching out to a book glowing with blue light, beckoning to her. She held her breath as it shunted to the edge of the shelf, easing itself out. It pulled free and fluttered over to her, its pages opening to a spot it wished her to see. She bent to read, entranced, it was spell about stopping time, she leaned closer, her fingers running over the beautiful calligraphy, the formulae and notes complex yet somehow with the power imbued in the tower, simple to understand. She leaned over, wondering if this spell was the same as—

A bolt of energy slammed into her chest, sending her hurtling backwards. She crashed into the bookshelves against the wall, the air knocked out of her lungs. Pain screamed through her shoulders and back. A tether of crackling blue lightning wrapped around her neck. She scrabbled at it, desperate as it tightened, cutting off her air, suffocating her. She tried to cry out for help, but no sound came. She heaved, choking, tears burning her eyes, the cold magic around her neck relentless in its death grip. Black spots blossomed within her eyes, spreading, blocking her vision. She sank to her knees, gagging for air, her chest burning. She fell onto all fours, fighting to find her Light. Why wasn't it helping her?

The tether snapped free. Air rushed in. She hauled at it, her lungs and throat screaming, burning hot. The darkness thinned, and by degrees the outline of the library returned, filling in, becoming solid again. She fell back onto her haunches and rubbed her neck, trying to ease the terrible ache the tether had left in its wake.

"Forgive me," a man said, rushing up and falling to his knees before her. He grasped her shoulder. "I thought you were someone else. Are you alright?"

Feeling like she might throw up, Idira bit down on her lip, struggling to suppress the pounding waves of nausea. She looked up at her assailant, her vision still blurry from her tears. Khadgar fell back onto his haunches, his expression so unexpected Idira's nausea fled. There was no doubt this time, even through the bright haze of her tears, she could see he was definitely looking at her like she had seen VanCleef look at Myra. He blinked and looked away, his jaw clenching, just like he had done on the balcony. He stood, brusque, and held out his hand, helping her up.

"How did you get into my office?" he asked, sharp, still looking away.

"The door was open," she answered, her voice hoarse.

He crossed his arms. "Impossible. I locked, sealed and warded it."

"Well, it was open for me," she said, her words ragged around the edges. She tried to clear her throat, it didn't help. "What is this place?"

"Never mind that," he said, cold, "how did you even get in here?"

"There was a doorway, like a portal, I walked into it. I was looking for you."

He glanced at her then. His expression softened for a heartbeat, then hardened again. He took hold of her elbow. "Show me how you got in here."

Idira glanced at the portal to her right, glowing white. It might be faint, but it was as obvious as the bookshelves surrounding them. She wondered if he was testing her. She led him to the portal and waited.

He arched an eyebrow at her, enigmatic. She guessed he wanted her to demonstrate what she'd done. Even though she didn't want to go back to where Margot and the guards were, she stepped into it. On the other side, the attacks had stopped, all was quiet. She turned and looked back through the portal. He turned full circle, calling her name. He sounded annoyed.

"Yes?" she answered.

"Where are you?" he asked, staring unseeing right at her on the other side of the portal.

"In your office. In Dalaran," she said, starting to feel a little afraid. Why was he doing this to her? Maybe he really couldn't see her. "Can't you see me?" she asked. "I can see you."

"Come back to me, if you can," he said, though this time he sounded a little less irritated.

She stepped back through the portal. He stepped back, staring at her, incredulous.

"You look surprised," she said, feeling suddenly shy.

"I am," he said, his eyebrow flicking upwards, impressed. "What you are doing even I cannot do."

She turned and looked back at the portal. "What do you mean? Can't you see the portal into your office? It's right here." She put her arm into it, up to her elbow, showing him.

His arm came around her waist, solid, and strong, his fingers tightening around her hip as he pulled her back so hard she came up against him, in a tight embrace. "Don't do that," he whispered, against her hair, staring at the portal he couldn't see, "it's dangerous."

It took a heartbeat for Idira to realise she was caught inside the crook of his arm, her body pressed against his. He smelled so good. She caught the rich scent of wine on his breath as he looked down at her, his expression suddenly protective. Her heart began to pound, they were so close, it wouldn't take much for her to lift her chin and close her eyes. The look was coming back into his eyes. Embarrassed, she pulled away. "I'm sorry, I didn't know," she said, light. She gestured at the books lining the shelves. "I like it here. There is so much power. It makes me feel—" she walked away, moving along the shelves, trailing her fingers along the books' spines. She glanced back at him, "—like I can do anything."

Several books fluttered free and approached her, curious. She reached out, entranced, and touched them. At her touch, the books glowed bright blue. Others slipped free, surrounding her. Soon, a torrent of books circled her, clamouring for her attention. She felt her Light awakening, burning so bright, the space around her became infused, glowing violet. The books fluttered around her, curious, brushing against her, drawn to her. All her life, all she ever wanted was to be around books, and now books were coming to her, living things, friends. They brushed against her shoulders and arms, affectionate. She laughed, delighted.

Khadgar called out, sharp, ordering the books back to their places. They fled, rustling, indignant, leaving her standing alone once more. She looked at him, uneasy. He strode back to her, his hands crackling with arcane power.

She stepped back, frightened. "What—?"

He threw a barrier around her, enclosing her. He raised his arm and she lifted from the ground, hanging suspended before him. "Who are you?" he demanded, suspicious.

She gaped at him, was the man mad? "I told you," she said, "I am Idira, from Westfall."

"Whom do you serve?" he shouted, drawing more power towards him.

She didn't like the direction things were going. He looked dangerous. Very dangerous. Fear welled up in her. "I . . . " she stammered, not knowing how to answer the question without angering him more. "No one? You?"

"I do not believe you!" he roared over the surge of energy pulsating around him. "You are a demon, pretending to be one of us. No more will you hide the truth from me!"

She stared at him, terrified. It had to be a test. He wouldn't attack her. He couldn't. Power crackled in his hands, rotating, shimmering, deadly. "Archmage?" she called out, fearful.

He let go of a blinding bolt of blue. It smashed into her through the barrier. She juddered, as it crackled across her body, flames of cold fire, burning, waves upon waves of it, endless. Pain scorched through her, digging deep, burying itself, winding its way in and then burrowing back out, tearing at her. She screamed, writhing in agony. Deep within the haze of pain, she saw him lifting up his staff, his lips moving as he cast a new spell. She cried out, thrashing against the barrier, desperate to escape, fearing another onslaught. She called to her Light, begging it to save her, to protect her from him. It flared to life, building, gathering in intensity, rotating around her torso, so bright she had to close her eyes. She convulsed as it burst outward, her Light shattering the barrier. She fell to the floor, hitting it with a hard smack. Pain arced through her, layer upon layer of agony as Khadgar's magic faded, the bruising aches in her muscles and bones roared in to take its place. She shuddered, unable to move. Darkness beckoned, she fled to it.

She woke and wished she hadn't. Everything hurt. She opened her eyes. A canopy hung above her, dark blue, gold tassels on the corners. Softness underneath. A bed. She turned her head a little. A bedroom, lavishly furnished. From the corner of her eye she saw Khadgar pacing, his head down, his gaze fixed on the floor as he moved back and forth in front of a large marble fireplace, his arms crossed over his chest.

Maybe he was waiting for her to recover so he could finish her off. She sat up, defensive, fearful. He turned, startled and looked at her, his expression shifting from relief to remorse.

He went to her. Frightened, she scuttled backward and pressed herself against the bed's headboard.

He knelt beside her, the leather of his boots creaking in the quiet. "Forgive me Idira," he murmured, reaching out to her, his fingertips touching the back of her hand. "I have done great wrong against you. I will make it right, somehow."

She pulled her hand out from under his. "You called me a demon."

He winced. "I did. You have power unlike anything I have ever seen before. We are living in very dark times. You came out of nowhere, you have no family, and you have incomprehensible powers. You managed to breach my domain without any effort. I did what I thought right to protect Azeroth."

"You attacked me," she shuddered, reliving the memory. "It still hurts."

"If you wish," he said as he gazed at her, gentle, "you may hurt me back."

She met his eyes. Her heart wavered, betraying her, pulling her to him once more, despite what had just passed. "Never," she answered, faint. "You are the Archmage."

He took her hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb, sending shivers through her. "What if I told you it would make me feel better?" he asked, soft.

She bit her lower lip, fighting her escalating attraction to him, trying to think about when he had hurt her. She glanced up, _that_ look sliced across his face again, her torso clenched. He pressed his lips together, though he didn't look away.

"You _want_ to feel pain?" she asked in a whisper, hardly able to breathe. He was so close to her, a mere heartbeat away. Despite what he'd done, she felt an overwhelming urge to touch his face, run her fingers over his scars, brush her lips against his.

His hand tightened on hers for the tiniest heartbeat. "Yes," he murmured. He left, abrupt, putting a safe distance between them. He set his staff aside. "Physical pain will help numb the guilt I feel for what I have done to you." He nodded at her, bracing himself, the muscles under his tunic rippling. "Go ahead, I deserve it."

He waited. She hesitated. He nodded at her, his steel grey eyes holding hers, intimate. Her heart thudding, she closed her eyes and concentrated, she had never before tried to hurt someone purposely with her Light. She called to it. Nothing happened. She called to again, thinking of when he'd attacked her and called her a demon. Maybe it needed a push. Still, nothing. She slumped back against the headboard and shook her head. "I cannot."

"You cannot or you will not?" he asked, soft.

"I cannot," she sighed. She looked back up at him, watching her, intent. "I . . . don't know how."

He nodded. "Then I will wait until you are able. I won't let you forget." He took up his staff, murmuring, reticent, "I know I do not deserve to ask for your trust after what I have done to you, but I would like you to stay here and study, instead of in Dalaran. You will be safer here under my care."

She lifted an eyebrow at him, dubious. "Am I?"

He rubbed a hand over his jaw, and glanced at her, shamefaced. He nodded. "I will come back later with food, real food, not the conjured variety," he said, changing the subject. "For now, I must go, I am already late." He went to the door.

"Wait," she said. She left the bed. "I am afraid to be here on my own. Please, let me come with you back to Dalaran. I won't tell anyone about what you did."

He moved back toward her. "What if I left a part of me here with you, would that help?" he asked, quiet.

She tried to understand. "An image?"

He cast a spell, and his staff blazed with light. She trembled, but stood her ground. A raven flew out of the light and landed on the back of a chair. She went to it. It walked over to her and hopped onto her shoulder. She looked up, confused. "A raven?"

"Ah this is no ordinary raven," he said. "I am able to see through its eyes, and hear through its ears. If you are in trouble, or need me, just call to me. You are never alone, so long as you keep my raven with you."

She held up her arm. It moved onto it. She held it up, examining it, uncertain. "Can it protect me?"

"No, but I can," he said, soft. She met his eyes, he held her gaze, she shivered, sensing his protection, his possessiveness. "However, nothing in this fortress can harm you. You will see. The library is straight down the hall. Once you are feeling better, why not return? The books seemed to like you very much. They will teach you what you need to know, much faster than I can."

She remembered his ring. Setting the raven back onto the back of a chair, she pulled the ring out of her pocket and held it out to him. "The guards called me a thief," she said, deciding not to mention Margot for the moment. "They chased me back to your office. I couldn't understand why they didn't follow me through the door. I think I know why now—they couldn't, could they?"

He watched her drop the ring into his upturned hand. "No. But they saw _you_ go through a sealed door," he murmured, his eyes meeting hers. He opened his pouch and placed the ring back inside. "Perhaps now you see why it is best for you to stay here? In this place no one will judge you, or punish you. You are safe here." He began to cast a teleportation spell. "I must go, the Council is waiting to meet with me."

Unable to stop herself, she took hold of his forearm. The solidness and warmth of him sent tingles up her spine. "Promise you will come back to me," she whispered.

He cut off the spell and covered her hand with his own. "I promise, Idira," he said, his eyes warm and reassuring. "I won't leave you here alone."

She let him go and backed away, reluctant, biting her lower lip. He looked at her one last time as he cast the teleportation spell. As he vanished, she saw the truth, plain in his eyes. The Leader of the Kirin Tor would come back, and soon. Very soon.

* * *

Several hours must have passed, though once Idira recovered and returned to the library, she lost all track of time. As the raven flew up into the reaches of the tower, circling and exploring, the books clustered around her once more, as tender and curious as little birds, hovering beside her. They fluttered ahead, leading her along the rows of bookshelves into the middle of the tower where she discovered a large desk and chair dominating the open space. She turned full circle. All around her, bookshelves fanned away like spokes in a wheel.

She went to the table, curious, her fingers trailing across the opened books strewn across the table's heavy oaken surface. A half-empty wine cup sat on the table. Idira lifted it and sniffed its contents. A red wine, full, robust, with tantalising notes of toasted oak. She sipped the ruby liquid, sighing with pleasure as it rolled, complex and buttery over her tongue and down her throat, recalling the moment Khadgar had pulled her away from the portal, his breath smelling of wine. This wine. She touched her lips, her heart beating a little faster as she relived how close he had held her, how easy it would have been for him to have kissed her. She sipped from his cup again savouring the thought, letting the wine soften the aches and pains in her body. She looked up, the books drifted closer, waiting for her, patient.

As she continued to sip the wine, one of the tomes fluttered down and lay itself on the table before her, flicking through its pages, a blur. It stopped, with a quiet rustle. She leaned down and read the arcane lettering. _How to Conjure the Lost Vintages of Kul Tiras._ She smiled. Of course. His homeland, long gone. It would be the first thing she would learn so she could surprise him when he returned.

She began. It didn't take long to learn the spells, but there were so many vintages, and she wanted to find the perfect one. By the time he returned carrying a large paper bag bearing the Bagel Brothers' logo, she was tipsy from tasting all the wines she had conjured.

"Oh!" she exclaimed as she lowered her wine cup, catching him coming up between the bookshelves, looking even better than she remembered. He glanced over the table littered with more than a dozen silver goblets, his expression amused. With a shake of his head, he pushed aside several of the goblets, making space for the bag containing her dinner. He leaned back against one of the bookshelves and crossed his arms over his chest.

"I see you have your priorities right, at least," he said, his lips quirking into a half-smile.

Idira didn't know what to say. Instead she held out the wine cup containing the vintage she thought he might enjoy. He took it, raising his eyebrow, intrigued.

"You don't intend me to drink alone do you?" he asked, nodding at the table. "Which one will you have?"

She picked up the second best one and waited for him to lift his cup to her. "To your studies, then," he said, soft.

He sipped, keeping his eyes on her. They widened as he tasted the wine. He swallowed, slow. "This is excellent," he murmured, moving over to the book, curious. "Vintages of Kul Tiras," he read. He glanced back at her, and said, quiet, "My homeland."

"I read a book about you, a long time ago," Idira admitted, feeling her cheeks darken as he watched her, his expression changing in a way that made her heart beat faster. "I thought you might like something from the home you had to leave behind."

He sipped again, his eyes holding hers once more. She clutched her wine cup tighter, shivering with pleasure under his steel-grey gaze. "I do like it," he said taking his eyes from hers and looking down into the wine as he swirled around, airing it, bringing out the fullness of its notes. "I like it very much."

He gestured at the paper bag. "How about some food to go with this good wine?" he asked.

Idira edged nearer as he opened the bag and pulled out half a dozen wrapped parcels. "Forgive me," he said as he opened them, checking their contents, "I had no idea what you liked so I bought an assortment. Let's see now, there's lamb with minted cress, or roasted tomatoes and pepper with caramelised onions and organic goat's cheese," he glanced at her, bemused,"—it's a new thing, this organic trend—and what else? Oh yes, smoked whitescale salmon with wild mustard—"

"Yes, that one. I love whitescale salmon," Idira interrupted, reaching out to take the parcel from him, delighted he had bought her favourite.

Khadgar cocked an eyebrow at her, one hand still holding an unopened package. "Don't you want to know what else I have," he teased as he handed her the one she wanted, "in case you like it better?"

"No," Idira smiled, "there is nothing I like better than salmon, especially when it's smoked."

"Very well," Khadgar answered as he rummaged through the rest of the parcels and chose a baguette filled with wafer-thin slices of roast venison, "I like a woman who knows her own mind. No dithering. Makes a refreshing change."

"Like the Archmage Jaina?" Idira blurted out, the wine hijacking her tongue. Her hand flew to her mouth as she realised she had spoken her private thoughts aloud.

Khadgar stared at her for a beat, utterly astonished, holding his sandwich halfway to his mouth. "Jaina?" he repeated, confused. "Ah I see," he said, starting to laugh, "yes, well _no_ , not _quite_ like Jaina."

Chuckling, he pulled himself up onto the table. He nodded at Idira before tucking into his food, making small sounds of appreciation as he ate. Idira turned to her own dinner, realising she was starving despite being full of wine. Khadgar didn't say much, letting her eat in peace. When they were done, he handed her wine to her before picking up his own.

"Shall I tell you where you are?" he asked, eyeing her over the rim of his goblet.

"Please," Idira answered, taking a sip, glancing up into open space in the centre of the tower, glittering with chaotic bursts of arcane energy. "I'm pretty certain we are not in Dalaran."

Khadgar set his cup aside. "No, not Dalaran," he said, folding up the empty sandwich papers and stashing them back into the bag. "We're not anywhere, actually."

"What do you mean?" Idira asked, intrigued, leaning forward.

"You have heard of Karazhan?" When Idira nodded, Khadgar waved his hand indicating their surroundings. "This tower and the other rooms along the corridor are just a small part of what was once Medivh's fortress. After his fall, I hurried to salvage what books I could into this wing, those books still untainted by the spreading darkness. When the darkness had almost consumed the fortress, I separated this wing from Karazhan and sealed it outside of space and time. Until you arrived this was my sanctuary, and my most cherished secret."

Idira looked down into her wine, finally understanding his terse, then deadly reaction to her arrival. She couldn't think of anything to say, shame filled her, she had breached his most private sanctuary.

He leaned over and caught her chin in his hand. He tilted her face up to his. "I don't know who you are or even what you are," he said, his gaze capturing hers, "but I swear, from now on you are under my protection. My sanctuary is your sanctuary, and my books are your books. Learn all you can, as fast as you can, the Kirin Tor needs every possible advantage right now. What you did, following me through a closed teleport should be impossible. It is as though you are able to transcend time."

"I don't know about that," Idira whispered, trembling a little under his look, "but Logan told me my Light killed all the demons that came to Westfall."

He nodded, slow, his eyes never leaving hers. "I felt the force of your power when you broke through my shield. It's been a very long time since anyone has sent me flying across a room. Your Light protects you, doesn't it?"

"That's what Unambi said," Idira murmured.

"Unambi?" Khadgar asked, his brow creasing, perplexed. "That's a troll's name."

"He was my protector. He gave up his life to save me when the Legion came." Idira looked away, blinking back tears. It still hurt so much, the ache he left in her heart.

" _'The only one who ever loved you_ ,'" Khadgar said, repeating her words from the balcony. "I thought you meant your father, but it was Unambi you were speaking of, wasn't it?"

Idira nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Khadgar stood up, pacing, silent, lost in his thoughts. He stopped.

"How old are you?" he asked.

She glanced up at him, startled by his non-sequitur. "Twenty-six," she said.

He fell silent again. "Hmmm. Which means you grew up when VanCleef was running Westfall. A dangerous man."

"Not as dangerous as my father," Idira muttered, thinking of the day he attacked their house with cannons.

"Wait," Khadgar said, turning to look at her, curious. "You said your name was Northshire. You aren't related to Jac Northshire, the notorious Defias Enforcer who went rogue, are you?"

"He was my father," Idira said, low, unable to look at Khadgar, her shame almost unbearable.

Khadgar knelt beside her, his interest in her deepening, genuine. "How incredible," he breathed. "Someone like you growing up in a place like that, with a father like that. One day, I would like to hear your story, from the beginning, if you wouldn't mind sharing it with me."

"Maybe one day," Idira said, soft, in no hurry to go over the sordid details of her past with someone like him.

"You and I," he said, nudging the edge of one of the books back onto the table, "we may have more in common than first meets the eye."

Idira took a sip of her wine. "I doubt it."

He eyed her. "We have both lost our homes, and everyone we loved, while carrying the burden of powerful magic, alone." He stood up and held out his hand to her. She took it. He brought her to her feet, easily.

"I understand your tutor was Margot," he said as she brushed up against his chest, making her heart do a fresh somersault.

"My tutor?" Idira asked, taken aback, by both the question and the sudden change of subject, something she was beginning to realise he did often.

He nodded, terse, his expression tightening. "Someone like you, applying to the Academy with eyes that colour should have been brought straight to the Council, instead you were buried in the archives where you could learn nothing. I won't tolerate it. I can't help but wonder how many others I have lost to the fight against the Legion because of the rampant pettiness and politics of the Kirin Tor." He looked away, his jaw clenching. "It sickens me, the corruption in Dalaran, it's rotten, right to the core. Once we have dealt with the Legion, there is going to be some housecleaning done, mark my words."

Idira waited as he fell silent once more, retreating into his thoughts. "Margot will be removed from her duties for the time being," he said, crossing his arms over his chest, "perhaps a stint in the archives might do some good for her, hm?" He glanced at Idira, his expression softening. "Ah, you are tired, as am I. It must be close to midnight by now. Will you be alright, alone here tonight?"

Idira desperately wanted to say no. With all her heart she wanted him to stay with her and hold her against him on that soft bed of his. "I have your raven," she smiled instead.

"You do," he said, soft, watching her, waiting.

"And if I call for you," she asked, hesitant, "you will come to me?" She bit her lower lip, uncertain.

"In an instant," he said, solemn as he began to cast a teleport. He glanced back at her, catching her biting her lip. His eyes darkened, a look, filled with hunger fleeted across his eyes, quickly suppressed. They shared one last look before he vanished. On the other side of his teleport, he walked across his lavish bedroom, forgetting she could still see him. She watched as he shed his shoulder collar and tunic, dropping his clothing onto the rug, careless; drinking in the sight of him clad only in his leather breeches and boots, as well built as Logan, the archmage's chest and back marked with the prestige of his many battle scars. He paused at a sideboard to pour himself a cup of wine. He turned, abrupt, and stared at the spot where he had materialised, quaffing his wine, reckless. Distracted, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

"How beautiful, how intriguing, how utterly, blindingly rare you are," he murmured, looking right at her, unseeing. He ran his hand through his hair, agitated. "Twenty-six. Just over half my age, _and_ an apprentice." He scoffed as he poured more wine and drank again. "Of all the women who could have crossed my path why must I be drawn to the only one completely forbidden to me? And yet, who would know if we . . . ? No. Azeroth needs me. I cannot, will not, risk it."

He sighed and set aside his cup, his fingers moving to his groin to unlace his breeches. Idira turned away, unwilling to spy on him any longer. She went to the bedroom, exultant, Khadgar's raven close behind. So, the Leader of the Kirin Tor felt it too; the frisson between them, the tension, the longing. It was enough. She could wait.

Far into the night she dreamed of him joining her, wearing nothing more than his breeches, holding her against him, murmuring _We can't_ even as his lips touched hers, light at first, then harder, possessive and fierce, sending them falling, tumbling, hungry, deep into their forbidden love. She woke, in an agony of longing. Eventually, she slept again, dreaming of him standing on his balcony, drinking deep from his wine, watching her with the eyes of his raven, oblivious to the world as it burned in the fires of the Legion and Azeroth turned to ash.


	20. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER 18**

Idira woke to the smell of coffee. A mug stood on the table beside the bed, a platter of still-warm pastries tucked up tight against the mug. She sat up, the faint leathery, earthy, cedar-infused scent of Khadgar still lingered in the room. By the fireplace, the residue of a teleport shimmered, leading into his office. The space beyond stood silent and empty. She lay back again and stared up at the inside of the bed's silken canopy, enduring a wash of disappointment. Why couldn't she have woken up in time to catch a glimpse of him as he departed? It would have been nice to have the chance to look at him again.

Khadgar's raven left its perch atop one of the chairs and landed on top of the bed's footboard. It tilted its head, eyeing her, its yellow eyes glowing. She sat up again, slow, wary. She hadn't noticed the raven's eyes glowing before. Perhaps Khadgar was using it now, to look at her. She pulled the sheet up, gripping it tight against her sides, holding it in place under her arms. She hadn't found anything to sleep in, so had stripped down to her knickers.

"If you are looking at me now," she murmured, feeling a little foolish to be talking to a bird, "make your raven jump down onto the bed." The bird shuffled along the top of the footboard, turning its head to look down at the mattress, getting its bearings. It jumped down and looked up at her, using its other eye this time. She pulled the sheet tighter against her chest, feeling exposed and vulnerable, although she supposed it was fair. _She_ had watched him through his teleport.

"Thank you for the coffee and the pastries," she said, examining the mouth-watering contents covering the narrow table. "You are spoiling me." She smiled as she lifted the coffee mug and breathed in its rich resinous aroma. She sipped. "Oh Light," she sighed, "that's coffee."

The bird hopped back up onto the footboard. Its steady gaze unnerved her a little. She wondered where Khadgar was as he watched her. She glanced back at the teleport, the space within remained empty, although she couldn't see the balcony. Maybe he was there, drinking his own coffee as the sun came up over Dalaran, she wished she could be there with him.

"When will I see you again?" she asked, reaching over to pick up the platter of pastries. The sheet slid free from her grip, giving the bird a sudden view of the curve of her breasts. She scrabbled to pull the sheet back up, catching it just before it reached her nipples. She glanced at the raven, it stood utterly still, watching her, its eyes glowing brighter than before. Her cheeks burned, as first embarrassment, then arousal sheeted through her. "Maybe you could give me some time, wait until I am dressed?" she whispered, tugging the sheet so tight around her, she realised too late it left almost nothing to the imagination anyway.

The light faded from the raven's eyes. The bird blinked and shook itself, turning to the work of preening its wing feathers. She let go of the sheet and watched it fall down to her hips, exposing her full breasts, her nipples tightening as the cool air of the room touched them. She took a pastry and ate, a naughty part of her wishing the Kirin Tor's Leader might cheat and look at her again. But of course, he didn't. She dallied as long as she could over her breakfast, dragging things out even longer by taking her time getting dressed, but the bird's eyes remained dull. She sighed, giving up. He had probably left to join the Council. After the horrifying things she had read yesterday she expected she wouldn't see him again for a long time. She decided she'd better learn how to conjure food, just in case.

* * *

The library made Idira happy in ways she couldn't begin to explain. The books welcomed her into their aisles and corridors like a long-lost friend, and no matter what she wanted to know, the books responded to her every request with alacrity, bringing her everything she needed, cross-references, glossaries, notes. Yet despite the wonder surrounding her, she sensed Khadgar's magic-laden library awakening in her a deeper sense of purpose, of pieces falling together; her first impression of having finally found the place where she belonged solidifying. The raw power within the once-Guardian's fortress seeped into her, energising her, empowering her. Before the morning passed, she learned all the spells for conjuring food, some of the dishes masterpieces of culinary art. She looked down at the buffet laid out before her, thinking if Khadgar didn't come back, at least she wouldn't starve.

She wondered what she should learn next. She asked the books. They fluttered up to the tower's heights, returning a few minutes later with several new companions. The new books lay down on the table, their silver clasps unlocking. She glanced across the row of open books. All of the magic in them contained spells from the path of frost and ice.

"Am I to be a frost mage then?" she asked, a smile tugging at her lips. The idea pleased her. The books rustled a little, as though affirming her query. She bent over the first book, sensing her Light kindling, igniting within her. Running her finger over the lines and columns, her eyes roamed over the sigils and formulas, drinking in the arcane text. She turned the pages, quickly moving through the first book, her Light flaring, her learning progressing at a rapid pace. She felt as though she was remembering things long forgotten, finding missing pieces of a puzzle she had never realised were lost. She didn't question the strangeness of it. Instead she let the tower's magic flow through her, granting her the potential to learn more and faster. She moved to the second book, devouring it, then the third, the fourth, and the fifth, each book increasing in complexity and depth, though the more she learned, the more she realised how much knowledge she still lacked. The books departed and a new set arrived. It didn't seem to matter that she had never seen the language before, written in archaic runes, it seemed to be enough just to see the runes, the magic in the tower and her Light working together for her to be able to manifest the knowledge held within the books.

Cut adrift from the circuit of day and night, Idira followed the rhythm of her body. She slept when she drooped with fatigue and dined when hunger called to her. Though she hoped he would, Khadgar did not return, not even to leave her food or drink. Every now and again his raven would land close to her, its eyes flaring, glowing bright yellow, the colour of the sun, usually in the late evening. She would talk to him, telling him of her progress, her Light circling her, infusing her with power. Pleased to have his company, she would conjure some wine and sip it while she talked to the yellow-eyed raven, perched close by watching her, unmoving, silent, intense. Khadgar had never again looked at her in the morning, though she often wondered if he ever watched her while she slept.

* * *

On her fifth night in the fortress, she had her answer. She woke, abrupt, her flesh tingling, sensing another's presence. She sat up. Khadgar's warm, earthy, cedar and leather scent washed over her. She shivered, tingling with delicious anticipation as she looked around the large room, her gaze raking over the chairs and sofas cloaked in shadow, all of them empty. Out in the corridor, the residue of a teleport glowed, its light faint. She slipped from the bed, clad only in her knickers and went to the door. Her heart aching with hope, she peeked around the doorframe.

Khadgar stood in his bedroom, just on the other side of the teleport, his back to her, rigid, his hands clenched into fist at his sides. She approached the portal, slow, resisting a wild urge to follow after him. He turned suddenly and looked back at her, unseeing, standing so close to her only the thin slice of the teleport separated them.

"Idira," he said, hoarse, ragged, the tautness of the muscles in his jaw betraying his torment. "How I want to share that bed with you . . . " He looked down at his hands still clenched into fists and cursed, low. He looked back up, right at her, though she knew he couldn't see her. He stepped back and began to cast a teleport, she watched, holding her breath, edging back to the bedroom door, watching him, her heart pounding. In moments he would be there, she glanced at the bed, giddy, thinking of what might soon follow. He stopped the spell, the light dying in his hands.

"No," he said, his hands once more curling into fists.

"Yes," Idira whispered, her body crying out for him, aching for him. "Please, come to me."

"No," he said again, anguished, and turned away. He went to his bed and lay down, fully clothed. He crossed his arms and stared at the ceiling, morose.

Choking back a shudder of disappointment, Idira sank down onto the rug and watched him, tears burning her eyes. He would never come to her. He belonged to Azeroth. There could never be anyone else for the Leader of the Kirin Tor. Not even her. She heard him say her name again, his voice thick with longing and regret. He dragged a cushion against his chest, clutching tight it against him, his thumb stroking the material, as though it was she he held and not a pillow. He turned onto his side and put his back to her. Her throat tight, she watched him, willing him to turn back towards her. He didn't. After a long while his body relaxed, finding release in sleep.

Though she knew she shouldn't, she stepped through the teleport's residue and crept across the thick carpet to his bed. She stood over him, drinking in the scent of him, the size of him, the steady movement of his tunic as he breathed, deep in the realm of dreams. She longed to touch him, but she dare not. Holding her breath, she bent over to look at him. He still held the cushion in a lover's embrace, possessive, protective. His eyelids moved as he dreamed, flickering back and forth as though reading something on the inside of his eyes. He moaned deep within his chest, the sound a primal, visceral thing, soaked with longing. Idira's heart clenched. A single tear slipped out the corner of his eye and slid over the bridge of his nose, processing, slow across his scarred cheek toward his pillow. Idira backed away, stricken, and fled through the teleport back to her empty bed. The Leader of the Kirin Tor had made his decision. Though he wished it otherwise, she would never be his. Her heart aching, she succumbed to her grief, and wept.

* * *

The next morning, depressed and listless, Idira wandered around the fortress, exploring. A part of her had been afraid to explore any sooner, despite Khadgar's reassurances. What if she opened a door and found something terrifying? She had decided to wait until she could better protect herself should she need to. Since she had learned almost all the spells from the path of frost, she was certain she could manage most things.

She followed the corridor to the opposite end of the library, where it terminated at a towering stained-glass window, black-dark from the non-existence of light outside it. She worked her way back along the lengthy corridor, opening each door, apart from one. That door stood halfway down the corridor and was warded and locked so well, even she couldn't open it. Curious, she pressed her hand against the solid wood of the door, sending out tendrils of frost to sense what might be behind. Something dark and dangerous stirred within, calling to her, hungry, beckoning, its magic so powerful, ancient and corrupt, Idira shuddered in revulsion. She drew back, uneasy, eyeing the door, realising more than ever that Khadgar was not a man to be trifled with; a man of dark secrets.

She backed away from the door, regretting having let whatever lay within know of her existence. She threw up an additional ward, just for good measure and pressed on, determined to put the locked room out of her mind. Several more bedrooms presented themselves to her, all similarly furnished. Then, a comfortably appointed office, filled with bookshelves stacked with scrolls, paperwork, maps, decrees and documents from the life of the Guardian Medivh. She went in, curious, spending most of the morning absorbed in reading through the private correspondence of Azeroth's once-Guardian. She had just begun to think about leaving when she spied a recessed drawer in one of the side tables beside the fireplace. Within, she found a plain leather-bound tome tied closed with small leather straps. She unlaced the ties, discovering the private journal of Medivh during the time he struggled to move on after his forbidden affair with the Horde emissary Garona. Feeling a little ripple of pleasure to find such a rare treasure, Idira sank down onto one of the upholstered armchairs, and pulled her legs up underneath her to read.

It was a long time before she finished. She got up and tucked the book back into the drawer where she'd found it, trailing her fingers over the smooth surface of the top of the table, her thoughts replaying Medivh's words, some of them terribly romantic. Medivh might have been corrupted by the Legion, but by the Light he loved that woman, perhaps beyond reason.

Idira's thoughts crashed to a halt. Khadgar had been under Medivh's tutelage when Garona had had her affair with the Guardian, and by the look of the notes in his journal, Medivh hadn't handled her departure well. Perhaps Khadgar didn't want to go down the same tortuous path he had seen his mentor travel. She thought of Medivh's final entry where he vowed never to love again. He had signed it in blood. She shivered. Karazhan might have been a place of great magic, but it was also furrowed with sadness, loss and loneliness.

Back in the library, she drifted along the stacks, lonely and despondent, thinking of Khadgar, and of Medivh's journal. She sensed the Kirin Tor's Leader would not be coming back again, at least not until she had learned all she could; at which point she suspected he would only stay long enough to portal her back to Dalaran. Once there, she expected he wouldn't waste any time returning to his rarefied, privileged, protected world, and she would be sent back to her life living on the periphery of his.

Morose, she leaned back against one of the stacks and stared up into the tower's heights, watching the flickers of arcane energy spark and extinguish continuously, an endless dance. She conjured wine, hoping it might ease her pain. It didn't. It only made her miss Khadgar more. As she sipped the ruby liquid, an uncomfortable thought took root: her whole life had been focused on finding and meeting Khadgar, the unfolding circumstances of her life's journey seeming to validate her belief that her life and her Light would make more sense once she did. Granted, her evidence for her belief had been limited to the events which led her to him, including their bizarre connection through her Light, even while he was stranded on another planet. But now, six days after she had stood on his balcony with him, nothing was any clearer, rather, she found herself cut adrift.

She had hoped, had dreamed of being his, believing he need only see her and their destinies would entwine, closing the long loop that had stretched between them for almost her entire life. But it seemed she had been wrong. She had misread the signs, had fabricated an ending to suit her purposes, assuming far too much. Instead she had ended up shut away in his sanctuary, alone and lost, left to her own devices.

She looked down at the wine still in her cup, swirling it as she had seen Khadgar do. It was her own fault. She had read a lot of fairy tales growing up and had become fanciful, imbuing her life story with the same formulaic arc as her favourite fairy tales, subconsciously expecting a happy ending to the sad story of her life. Perhaps in real life there were no happy endings, only brief moments of joy bubbling up within the brutal grind of living, surviving, enduring. Perhaps her shared meal with Khadgar, dining on Bagel Brothers' sandwiches was all she was ever meant to have with him. She should be grateful, her Light had never shown her anything other than her time with him on his balcony. It had promised her nothing. _She_ had created all the rest from that one look she had seen in his eyes. She shook her head, embarrassed by her childish fancies, all of them so lovingly tended and nurtured. Yet never once in all her years of waiting had she taken into consideration Khadgar was a person in his own right, with his own past, hopes, fears, demands, duties and constraints. Apart from the dry facts she had read in her books about Khadgar the Archmage, she knew almost nothing about the _man_ Khadgar. She had fallen in love with the idea of him before she had ever even met him. But how would she ever know him—the man—if he avoided her?

She sighed and let go of the wine cup, watching its fall until the last moment, when she waved her hand. The cup vanished, returning back to the particles of energy it had manifested from. She eyed the books waiting for her on the table, ones she still had yet to finish reading. A wave of despair washed over her. What was the point?

The raven ruffled its feathers, shifting its position as it roosted nearby, distracting her. She glanced up at it, deciding she needed to do something to cheer herself up. Perhaps it was time to try to conjure some new clothes, she certainly could use something fresh after wearing the same thing for nine days. The books aided her as best they could, but understandably there wasn't much about conjuring dresses in Khadgar's library. She decided to try anyway. It would at least distract her from the abyss she felt she was staring into.

After a little experimenting and several ridiculous failures—a stone teacup, a pair of seven-legged stools, a bronze chamber pot?—she created her first gown. Very plain. A simple black affair, quite boring and austere. She tried again and managed to craft a yellow dress with a whisper of lace at the neck and around the cuffs. A little better but not terribly interesting or exciting either. She kept at it, manipulating existing spells, taking parts away, weaving in pieces from other spells, reminding her of adding spices to a dish cooking on the stove. Dress after dress manifested, none of them particularly enticing, merely a variation on the same theme. Something was missing. She stepped back and surveyed her efforts, tapping her finger against her lips, wondering what she was doing wrong.

A thought struck her, as unexpected and abrupt as a lightning bolt in the middle of a scorching Westfall summer afternoon. A shudder of pleasure coursed through her as a locked door within her mind unlatched itself and swung open. She waved her hand and the pile of nondescript dresses dematerialised. The books fluttered closer, curious, waiting.

She stripped down and lay her dress over the back of the chair, trailing her fingers over the faded material. It might be old and worn, but the dress was Logan's gift and she couldn't bear the thought of accidentally sending it to the Nether, severing one of her last remaining ties to him. She cast a quick spell to freshen up, the same one Margot used before they'd portalled to Khadgar's office. Shivering a little, she called to her Light, revelling in the thought that her newfound knowledge had granted her the ability to access her power at will. Her Light burst free, circling around her torso, tendrils of violet light darting round her like a school of fish. Drawing no more than a trickle, she visualised the gown she wanted, similar to the one she had seen held up by the attendant in the dress shop when she first arrived to Dalaran. She held her arms out, spread-eagled, and closed her eyes, feeling the soft shimmer of material whispering up her legs and over her torso, across her breasts and down her arms to her wrists.

The Light was still working, but she couldn't wait, she opened one eye and peeked. She caught her breath. The blue glow of arcane light caught the brilliant cut of thousands of tiny diamonds glinting off the pure silver-white silken material of her dress, so thin in places along her arms it was nearly transparent. Too impatient to walk all the way back to the bedroom to see her reflection, she conjured a mirror. Her reflected eyes widened. She hadn't used the mirror in the bedroom since she'd arrived, uninterested in reminding herself of the plainness of her garb. She should have. In the last six days spent living in his magic-drenched sanctuary outside of time and space she had changed. A thrill shimmered through her as she leaned closer, inspecting her reflection. No longer did she bear the youthful, unfinished look of a girl of twenty-six, instead she bore the regal look of an ageless woman, her cheeks had thinned, allowing her cheekbones to show, accentuating her eyes to even greater effect. Her brow and skin remained smooth and unblemished, though the shape of her face had changed slightly, its contours defined, elegant, alluring.

She leaned back, tilting her face from side to side, examining it from several angles. So this was who Khadgar had looked at when he came to her room last night. She had wondered at his sudden tumult, his deep conflict. Idira couldn't help but gaze at herself, fascinated by the subtle, yet astonishing changes, thinking once more of Khadgar's tormented expression as he turned away. Yes. It explained much. He must have been watching her transformation through his raven, while she remained oblivious of herself. She smiled, seeing herself—her old self—in the shadow of her younger face. She smiled again, this time with pleasure. She far preferred the woman before her now, perhaps aged ten years older, but still bearing the verdant flush of youth. She glanced up at the raven, aware now of her changed appearance and how well she looked in her glittering gown. Khadgar would be undone if he saw her this way. But he _had_ seen her, who knows how long he had stood over her watching her sleep, feeling the same things she had felt as she stood over him. She bit her lower lip, watching herself in the mirror, trying to see herself with his eyes. She examined herself, critical, unable to understand how biting her lip could affect him so. Myra had once said men could find the strangest things arousing, admitting VanCleef had liked to watch her mouth when she talked, and once he started doing that, he didn't last long before he was taking her into his arms and carrying her up to his bed. Idira sighed. It didn't matter how much she bit her lip, Khadgar wasn't going to be carrying _her_ anywhere. Khadgar was another type of man entirely. A man of honour, restraint and responsibility, irrevocably bound to his duties. Nothing like VanCleef at all.

A fresh spear of longing slammed into her heart. She waved her hand. The mirror and her dress disappeared. She went back to the chair and put her old dress on, not yet ready to let him see her in all her finery. At least now she knew how to make the clothes she wanted. Tonight she would conjure herself a shift to sleep in. Something pretty. No. She arched an eyebrow, a naughty thought slicing through her, enticing her. Something transparent and sensual, just in case Khadgar came back in the night to look at her while she slept. She couldn't be blamed for what she did while she slept, could she? And if he was looking at her when she slept, he was cheating, too. She would have to stop sleeping under a blanket as well. Very well. It didn't matter to her if she shivered all night long, if he came to her, he would get to see her. All of her. And then maybe, just maybe, he would stay.

* * *

Much later that evening, Idira closed the last book on the path of frost. It lifted up and fluttered away, settling back into its place. Resting her head against the chair's high back, she gazed up into the tower's soaring centre, where bursts of arcane power rippled and shimmered, accompanied by nascent darting tendrils of her Light. She watched the interplay of his power with hers thinking if she couldn't be with Khadgar, at least the imprint of her power would remain here, forever reminding him of her. It counted for something. Perhaps one day, far in the future when Azeroth was safe and she was of the right age, he would send for her. She laughed, hollow, chiding herself for once more indulging in fanciful thoughts. She needed to accept his decision and move on. She had been wrong. Khadgar had never been meant for her.

The raven swept down and settled onto the table. She caught her breath, watching its eyes, hoping they would light up and grant her a brief moment of contact with the Leader of the Kirin Tor. But the raven remained its usual self, hopping over the books, ruffling its feathers, its eyes dull, denying her the presence of her unseen watcher.

She regarded the raven a little longer, her chest tight with hope, but the bird moved on, flying up to perch on top of one of the stacks nearby. Disappointment sheared through her. Khadgar wasn't going to contact her tonight. She sensed it was very late, certainly well past midnight in Dalaran. She got up and paced, agitated, sleepless. Light she was lonely. What she wouldn't do to have the chance to sit down with Wynn and just talk. For a heartbeat she considered teleporting into Wynn's room, thinking of the things she could tell her friend about Khadgar's fortress; of his planned demotion for Margot; of the quiet meal she had shared with him; how handsome he looked when he ran his hand through his hair, distracted. She caught herself smiling, thinking of him. She stopped, scoffing at her thoughts. No. It was too dangerous. Wynn would tell everyone, discretion was definitely not one of her strong points.

Filled with ennui, Idira looked around, despondent. What else could she possibly do besides studying to alleviate her sense of alienation, isolation and loneliness? A slim book fluttered down, shy, and bobbed in the air before her. Idira almost rolled her eyes. Would these books of Khadgar's not even allow her a moment's respite? The book fluttered its pages at her, settling down to an open page part way into the book. It wiggled a little, like a naughty child, desperate to share a secret.

Idira raised her brow, intrigued. She leaned closer.

"By the Light," she breathed as she read, incredulous. She tore her eyes from the delicious, handwritten words and poked the book, a smile tugging at her lips. "Oh you are a _bad_ book!"

It wiggled again, utterly pleased with itself. She turned and headed for the bedroom.

"Follow me," she said, her heart pounding, reprimanding her for what she was about to do. She pushed aside her guilt. If Khadgar hadn't wanted her to find that book, he would have removed it. Maybe he did want her to find it. With him, who could tell? The book dutifully made its way after her, its pages rustling. She glanced back, sensing it was smirking at the other books. Well, why not. It might not be about magic, but there could be no doubt it was the best book in the whole place.

She went to the bed and conjured her transparent nightgown, gesturing for the book to rest on her lap. A moment's hesitation as she touched the cover. A deep surge of inner remonstration washed over her. She hesitated until her curiosity overwhelmed her. Just a peek. No more. She opened the cover and turned to the first page, her eyes raking over his handwriting, neat and precise; devouring his words, hungry. The first entries were written long ago, a few years before she was even born. She hesitated again. This was his true past; these were his true thoughts. _This_ was the man Khadgar. She dithered. No. She closed the book, her fingers lingering on the cover. Unable to stop herself she opened it again. She couldn't bear it. She had to know. She bent over the book, her heart pounding at the thought he might teleport in at any moment and catch her red-handed. His first words pulled at her, his voice filling her mind, resonant. She trembled, consumed with anticipation as she submerged herself into his private, secret thoughts.

 _Year 593. This is my first entry. I am eighteen years old. I cannot believe what my hands have done. I had no choice. To save Azeroth I drove a sword into my mentor's heart, the corrupted Guardian of Azeroth. Now I must carry this terrible memory with me to my death, the responsibility, the burden, the guilt . . . it is crushing, I almost cannot bear it. As my master died and the taint of Sargeras left him, Medivh looked at me and whispered 'I forgive you' and then, with his last breath, he said 'Garona.' Now the Last Guardian is gone, slain by my own hands. Gone to the Light. I find myself lost, and alone, faced with a hostile, dangerous and rapidly changing world. May the Light protect me._

She turned the page, shaken by his stark, bleak words, so unlike the archmage she knew. She had no idea Khadgar had killed his mentor. None of the books she had read had said Medivh had been slain by him, just that the Guardian had fallen in the final confrontation. She continued:

 _I woke this morning to find my youth has fled, taken from me in the blink of an eye. If I had ever hoped to have an affair of the heart, those hopes have now been taken from me. I am caught out of time. I belong nowhere, to no one and no time. If this is the price I must pay for what I had to do, so be it. Now, there is only the arcane left, my sole purpose to protect Azeroth, no matter what the cost, even if it costs my life . . . and even though my heart aches for it, I accept my fate. Love is not meant for me._

Idira sat up until deep in the night, reading his entire journal without stopping. When she finally finished, she set the book aside and stared at it, her emotions tumbling. He had been through so much. Much, much more than she. And always alone, he had never had anyone to stand by his side, like she'd had in Logan and Unambi, or even little Margle. She shivered, sensing her power beginning to take hold of her, chilling her, lowering her temperature. The price she learned she would have to pay to go beyond the usual limits of the power of frost. She watched as a sheen of ice crept across her breasts and coated her arms. She cast a spell, and the ice melted away, though she remained chilled to the bone. She glanced down at her thin silken shift and scoffed. What had she been thinking? Once she fell asleep, she would freeze to death in this thing. And yet . . . he might still come. She didn't want him to find her wrapped up in layers of wool and fur, buried under a heap of blankets. She would just have to learn to live with the burning pain of her cold. For him, anything.

She trailed her fingers over the journal's cover, recalling some of his most personal entries. Soon after his transformation, while internally he was still a youth and full-blooded, there had been a young woman he had admired from afar, a girl of his own true age, though he had done nothing more than write about her; poetic, romantic things which made Idira's heart beat faster. Over the years there had been more than a dozen such affairs locked deep in his heart, the women's ages ascending to match his real age, hidden under his transformed exterior.

One note had deeply interested her: as his powers grew, his outward age began to reverse, his own magic mitigating the damage of the curse bestowed on him so long ago. From what she could gather, at the beginning he had aged from eighteen to seventy in one night, but as his natural age progressed into his thirties his appearance had begun to renew and he became younger and younger looking over the years. She calculated. By now, he would be about forty-six in real years, yet he looked younger, in his early forties. She sensed he had no idea the effect he was able to have on a woman, having lived so long looking like an old man, a prisoner to his curse. She skimmed through his journal, stopping at certain portions to double check his words. No, she had intuited correctly. Khadgar had never slept with a woman, though he clearly thought about it, given the poetic eroticism of some of his later entries. She wondered what it would be like to share a bed with a man like Khadgar who had lived all his life committed to fighting for Azeroth, often against insurmountable odds. A man who had given up his need for love to fulfill a greater purpose. She closed the book and tucked it under the pillow beside her. She had wanted to know the man, now she did. What she'd read made her heart ache. He had suffered much, yet never once had he been turned aside from his path to protect Azeroth from the mortal threats the world had faced time and again.

She lay down facing the pillow with Khadgar's journal underneath, thinking of some of his most poetic entries. There was no doubt, underneath the Leader of the Kirin Tor's tunic, beat a heart capable of poignant longing and breathtaking romance. She lay her hand over the pillow, wishing with all her heart she might be the one to break the last of his curse and walk his path with him; neither of them needing to be alone any more.

* * *

The next morning, Idira woke with a start, a blanket over her. A mug of coffee stood on the bedside table along with a platter of fresh fruit. Tucked up beside it, an assortment of sweet biscuits. Only the faintest trace of Khadgar's singular scent remained. She eased up and touched the coffee. Cold. She shivered, not from her inner cold, but from pleasure. Her plan had worked, he had seen her in her shift. Wait. She looked down at the blanket, frowning. Had he conjured a blanket for her or had she done it and not remembered? She _had_ been cold. No. She remembered now, half asleep she had conjured the thing, sometime after she had fallen asleep. She bit back a curse. Typical.

She cast a small spell and warmed the coffee again. She sipped, enjoying a fresh ripple of pleasure despite her annoyance over the blanket. Khadgar had been here, looking at her again, a small part of her found his private surveyal of her delicious, erotic. She slid her hand under the pillow to pull out his journal, thinking to read her favourite parts again. She reached further in. The pillow tumbled onto the floor, she scrambled under the sheet, frantic, searching. His journal was gone. He must have used the raven while she was absorbed in his journal. She bit her lip, her cheeks burning with shame. How could she ever face him now? He knew she knew his secrets, had read his most private, intimate thoughts, forcing him to return to his sanctuary to remove the book while she slept.

There could be no turning back from this. Whatever slim chance she had had with him was now gone forever. She eyed the raven, despondent.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to it, though its eyes were dull. "I only wanted to know who you really are, and now that I do, I want to be yours more than ever. Khadgar, there is only you. I could never love anyone else."

The raven flew closer and landed on the bed's footboard as though drawn by her words. It eyed her. She sat up, uncertain. Could Khadgar hear her without her knowing? The raven edged along the footboard, flapping its way, awkward, over to the bedside table. It stole a biscuit and returned to its perch on the back of one of the chairs. She sighed, relieved. Khadgar hadn't heard her after all. The bird just wanted to eat. She took one of the biscuits. It was delicious. She scoffed. The bird had good taste. She tossed it another one, grateful for its companionship at least. If only it wasn't a bird, if only it was a human, someone she could talk to, someone who would make her feel less alone.

She watched the raven work its way through the biscuit, a wild idea coming to her. She scoffed again, at the very notion. It came back, stubborn, insistent, taking shape. She toyed with her coffee cup, considering. There _had_ been an obscure text in one of the arcane tomes relating to what she was thinking, but the spells it referred to were another thing entirely. It would never work. Wait. She sat up straighter, her skin tingling. If she could conjure the gowns she wanted with her Light why could she not do this as well? Why stop at gowns? There might not be any limitations to what she could accomplish now. A rush of pleasure surged through her. All the time she had spent in Khadgar's sanctuary she believed herself inferior to him, but what if her awakened and empowered Light had granted her power as great as his? Something such as she was thinking of would take powerful magic. The magic of an archmage, at least. She jumped up and pulled on her dress, her thoughts racing ahead, thinking of the hurdles she would need to overcome. It didn't matter, now she had thought of it, she couldn't think of anything else. She grabbed another biscuit and ran down the hall to the library. It was time to see just how powerful she had become.

* * *

It took almost the whole day to prepare, time spent checking and rechecking vague texts, puzzling over interpretations, desperate to reassure herself no harm would come to the poor raven, who watched her, curious, as though intuiting the part he would soon play in her experiment.

Long past the dinner hour, Idira stood back, scarcely daring to breathe. She had done all she could, had cast several wards, laid down seven runes, and encircled both her and the raven in the centre of the library behind a seamless, unbreachable boundary.

She called to her Light. It awakened, responding to her request, stirring. Dozens of thin tendrils shot out, her violet Light spiralling around Khadgar's raven perched on the back of the chair. Caught within its grip, the raven eyed the darting lights, uneasy. Idira held her focus, visualising the end result, drawing more of her Light to her. It hummed, pulsating, surging to life. A bolt of energy rose up within her, shooting through her, filling the enclosed space with her Light, another bolt, then another bloomed from her, the enclosed space vibrating, shuddering from her Light's growing intensity. She kept her eye on the raven for as long as she could, shielding her vision from the glare. The Light thrummed, rotating along the edges of the boundary, spinning faster and faster, until there was only a blur of her Light, crackling with energy. It stopped, abrupt and collapsed inwards, a silent rush of sapient energy, falling straight into the raven, surrounding it in a brilliant explosion of violet light, its force throwing Idira backwards, staggering against the glassy surface of the boundary. White light sheared through her vision, blinding her. She cried out, realising the profound depth of the Light's power, as it moved far beyond what she had asked of it. Waves of the Light's energy pulsed over her, ancient, primal, deep, so vast it lay beyond even her newfound abilities to comprehend. She juddered as another shock bored its way through her, bizarre symbols impaling themselves into the structure of her mind, telling her the Light was not _her_ power. The symbols progressed, inexorable, pitiless. _Idira Northshire is a vessel. She has one purpose: to carry the Light of Azeroth to Sargeras._

Idira sank to her knees, stunned. A vessel. How simple. How elegant. It explained much. Finally she understood why none could comprehend her power; why she had been shunned and ridiculed, the Light within her so terrifying, so intimidating, so foreign, only those with the greatest fortitude could bear her presence; why she had been protected, even to the cost of lives; why she had never been able to love Logan, and why she had been directed to Khadgar, not for him, but for _this_ , his energy-laden sanctuary locked outside of space and time, brimming with the books her Light needed her to access.

Her thoughts lurched to a halt. And what would happen to her once she carried Azeroth's Light to Sargeras? Would it leave her and she would become Lightless, an ordinary woman? Or would she . . . No. She wouldn't think it. Azeroth would not be that cruel, that heartless, just to use her and cast her aside, making her whole existence apart from completing her task meaningless. The white light faded and by degrees her vision returned. The boundary melted away, the runes vanished. On the chair, movement. Idira crept closer, her heart in her throat.

She caught her breath. The raven was gone. Khadgar looked down at her and smiled. He held out his hand to her. She took it. It was warm.

"Can you speak?" she asked as he brought her to her feet, her eyes raking over him, taking in the silver scars on his face, the stubble on his jaw, his steel-grey eyes. It was him. No. It was _almost_ him.

The echo shook its head, slow. _Not yet._ She wondered if she had missed something. Tomorrow she could think about it, for now, she was relieved not to have to hear his voice as well as see him. It was easier this way.

"But you hold his thoughts, his wishes, his dreams, you are Khadgar's true echo?" Idira continued, hesitant, amazed by how real, how solid the echo was.

The echo nodded. He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingertips. Idira felt her heart clench. The echo looked no different than Khadgar, though she knew the truth, the echo contained no sexual organs. She had purposely chosen this restriction, since she feared what might happen should he be able to function the same as the real Khadgar. He stood and pulled her towards him. She caught her breath. He even smelled the same, leather, cedar wood, warm earth. His arms came around her, his hand coming up to cradle her head against his shoulder, his broad, solid chest rising and falling as he breathed.

Her emotions tumbled, confused, cutting her adrift. She shook her head and pulled free. It wasn't real. He wasn't real. He was nothing more than a construct of powerful magic, a fantasy made into flesh. What had she done? Disappointment and exhaustion swept over her, sharpened by the raw agony of her epiphany. She turned away, tears blurring her eyes. The echo came after her, taking hold of her arm, holding her back. He brushed the hair away from her brow, tender, his eyes saying what he could not.

 _I understand. I am not him. But I can still comfort you. Please. Let me._ He tugged her, gentle, back into his embrace; stroking her hair, reminding her of Logan's affection, given without expecting anything in return.

In the echo's reassuring embrace, she sagged, stricken. He picked her up and carried her, effortless, to the bedroom. He lay her down and waited. Idira looked up at him, her heart aching for the real Khadgar. A spear of cold slicked through her as her latent magic turned against her. She shivered. The echo didn't wait for an invitation, he pulled off his shoulder collar and tunic and lay down beside her, pulling her against the battle-scarred torso of the man she had been waiting for her entire life. Despite herself, she huddled closer to Khadgar's echo, seeking his warmth, though she found none, his magic sustaining only his own heat. She sighed and closed her eyes, her head tucked against his shoulder, his fingers trailing through her hair, caressing her, consoling her.

As she relaxed under his gentle ministrations, she thought of Khadgar's journal, of his desire for love, and his deepest longing to find the one who could match him, understand him, support him. She could have been that woman, given enough time, but she didn't have time. The echo's arms tightened briefly, the gesture filled with reassurance. She wondered if he could hear her thoughts. Fresh tears gathered in her eyes as she thought of the words of Azeroth. Her one secret, unshakeable hope had always been her belief that her connection to Khadgar through her Light meant she was destined to be with him. Rather, the bitter truth was her life had never been her own, and her long-awaited meeting with Khadgar had only been to serve one purpose, to bring her to his sanctuary to prepare for her confrontation with Sargeras. A tear slipped free and slid down her cheek as the layers of her life peeled away, showing her path in a new light: its through-line suddenly clear, her destiny driven inescapably to this place and time; her path, the one she had thought had always been her own had instead been determined by a power so great, so distant, so unfeeling, she felt she was nothing more than a pawn on a vast chessboard. Hollowness clawed at her. The echo reached up and wiped the tear from her cheek, his actions heartbreakingly gentle. She looked up at him, and saw the sadness in his. He kissed her brow, his arm tightening around her, protective.

Guilt slammed into her for what she had done. How was she any different than Azeroth? _She_ had created a sentient being for her own selfish purposes, taking away from him any chance of knowing what it would mean to fully love her. She felt the echo's lips brush against her brow again, soft, forgiving. Despite her roiling thoughts, exhaustion pulled on her, offering her an escape. She fought it, but the tug of sleep dragged on her, relentless. Within the sheltering arms of Khadgar's echo, she let go. _Khadgar_ , her heart called out as she tumbled, plummeting into the realm of her broken dreams, _please, just once, love me, before it is too late._

* * *

When Idira woke, still in the arms of her echo, she had a moment of blissful forgetfulness before the memories returned. She pulled herself free and sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. Her echo rolled onto his back, still lost to sleep. She turned, surveying him, her heart aching. How like Khadgar he was, his hair had become messy, and lay tousled over his brow, which bore creases of worry even as he dreamed. She wondered what it was like to be him, to be Khadgar in every way, yet not be him. Guilt sliced through her again. She had done a terrible thing, and what would Khadgar say when he learned his raven had been made into an echo of him? She groaned and rubbed her hand against her forehead. It seemed being left to her own devices had driven her straight into mischief. Perhaps she should return to studying. There were still hundreds of books she hadn't yet read. At least studying was safe.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, deciding to conjure herself a new dress. If she was going to have to face off against a Titan, she might as well spoil herself first. She took off her dress and cast the bathing spell. Freshened, she considered what she would wear. She closed her eyes and called to her Light. It spiralled around her, weaving a silken gown from her shoulders to her feet. She went to the mirror and caught her breath. A violet gown, precisely the same colour as her eyes glittered with tiny points of her Light all across the bodice and skirt, reminding her of the stars she had seen in the night skies of Westfall.

"The constellations of the heavens," a warm, familiar voice murmured from the bed. She turned, her skin prickling. He could talk after all. The echo sat up, eyeing her with approval. "An appropriate choice for the Daughter of Azeroth."

"How could you—?" she breathed, though she suspected she already knew the answer.

He crossed the room and took her hands in his. "Because I am him, yet I am not him. In many ways I am more than him, having been imbued with so much of your Light." He glanced at himself in the mirror, curious. "It is intriguing to be carrying his memories, his thoughts, his feelings . . . his yearning. He aches for you, Idira, I can feel it,"—he pressed his hand against his chest, over his heart—"here."

She pulled herself free and backed away in an agony of torment. "I should not have done this. I don't know what I was thinking."

"There is no need to regret your actions, I for one am very pleased with this arrangement." He bent to retrieve his tunic, pulling it over his head, his muscles rippling. It was unbearable. Idira looked away. "But I do think," he said as he straightened the material, "you ought to be prepared to make me invisible should the need arise."

She glanced back at him as he ran his hand through his hair, combing it back with his fingers, his movements achingly familiar to Khadgar's.

"Don't you care that I made you for my own selfish ends?" she blurted out, trying to distance herself from her confused feelings.

He turned to her, relaxed, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Although I might function as you do, able to breathe and feel, I know I am not truly real. For me to become real, a soul from the Nether would have to join with me, and in this form there could only be one soul which could do so. Khadgar's."

Idira started. "Wait. Are you saying—?"

"You didn't know?" The echo's brow quirked, intrigued. "Long ago, the Faceless Ones learned how to create an echo of themselves so that when they died, they could be reborn once more and live again, their version of immortality, though not without cost. I thought among other things I was practice for you."

"Practice?" Idira gaped, flummoxed. "For what?"

The echo settled his shoulder collar in place, his fingers working, deft as they fastened the leather straps. "Well, obviously not," he smiled at her, his eyes gentle. "It seems you just wanted me for me. That doesn't happen very often. In fact, this would be the first time."

Idira considered him, the man who looked and behaved just like Khadgar apart from the bizarre things he said. He raised his eyebrow at his reflection in the mirror, admiring himself, vain. A bolt of relief shot through her. Khadgar wouldn't have done that. It helped.

"Doesn't happen very often?" she repeated back his words back to him, hoping he would enlighten her.

The echo pulled his gaze from his reflection and went to her, his eyes moving over her, taking his fill of her, his appreciation obvious. "I am made of the stuff of the Nether, held together in material form by the deepest magic of all, the Light of creation; of life. I have lived a long time, an eternity actually, but every now and again I am brought into some form or another. Usually for nefarious means." He looked down at himself, pleased. "This manifestation makes a refreshing change, although I would have preferred to have had my testicles."

Idira felt her face begin to flame. She turned away. "I couldn't be sure . . . "

He touched her arm. "I understand. I was only teasing. What would I do with them anyway, your heart belongs to another, and quite right." He gestured to the door. "I heard you thinking about reading some more books. Shall we?"

Idira nodded, trying to get used to the idea that her thoughts were no longer her own. She stopped and turned back to him, a tremor of embarrassment filling her. She had thought about studying the books before she had cast the bathing spell. "You didn't—"

The echo shrugged, unrepentant, a playful smile tugging on his lips. "Of course I did. You made me a full-blooded man after all."

Despite her apprehension for having manifested him, Khadgar's echo proved to be an amiable, kind and patient companion, filled with a wealth of esoteric knowledge. He spoke with the books, sending them scurrying off to awaken some of the most ancient tomes, locked away in secret compartments, instructing the younger books to carry the elder ones back to her. In one day, she learned much. Far more than she had learned in all the other days combined. Under his tutelage, her abilities expanded, deepened, perfected.

Late in the evening, she conjured food and wine, and they ate, companionable, discussing some of the deeper aspects of the arcane texts she had studied. He told her that he had been manifested in other universes, that the energy which comprised him existed outside of the material realms bound by time. She listened, fascinated as he told of her of other worlds and other beings, some strange, some familiar, some which had even heard of Azeroth despite existing in altogether different universes.

She drank the last of her wine and looked down into her empty cup, fatigue stealing over her. "I need to sleep," she murmured, stifling a yawn. "It has been a long day."

"Of course," the echo slid off the table and held out the crook of his arm, escorting her from the library. Just outside the bedroom, she held back, hesitating, uncertain.

"Would you prefer to change in private?" he asked, soft. "If you'd like to wear that transparent nightgown you are thinking of, don't refrain for my sake. I can only look, after all."

Idira dithered. "What if Khadgar comes in the night and sees you?"

A twitch of his brow as the echo suppressed a smile. "I rather think it might go in your favour if he does. Nothing triggers a man more than the threat of competition."

"True, but he could hardly be threatened by himself," Idira answered, wondering at the echo's mild attitude toward her predicament. She had thought to send him away, to sleep in one of the other bedrooms, just to be safe.

"Put your nightgown on," the echo said, tilting his head toward the bed, "I will wait here until you decide if you'd rather my company tonight or not."

She went in and slipped behind a folding screen, sending her gown back into the Nether, wavering, indecisive for several shivering moments before giving in and replacing it with the shift she had hoped Khadgar would see. She glanced down at herself and sighed. What was she doing? Of course he would not come. It was already very late. He had not even used the echo's eyes to check on her over the last two days. Maybe the Leader of the Kirin Tor would never check on her again, so deep had been her betrayal of his trust. Perhaps he would just create a portal for her when he wanted her to leave his sanctuary, ensuring he wasn't on the other side when she arrived. Her heart clenched, filled with recrimination. Why hadn't she resisted reading his journal. Why?

Her heart heavy, she left the privacy of the screen. The echo stood waiting outside the door, he looked at her as she approached, his gaze lingering on the curve of her breasts.

"By the Light, you _are_ extraordinary," he said, reverent. "I can see why Khadgar does not come to you. I find it hard to believe any mortal man could withstand such a vision without losing their senses."

Idira scoffed, though she felt a glimmer of warmth at his appreciative look, wishing it was Khadgar who looked at her that way. She turned away from the echo, to avoid his look. "Right now I am glad for your 'discrepancy'," she said, shy, "because when you look at me like that . . ."

She listened to his footfalls as he moved across the stone-flagged floor, coming to standstill behind her. She turned.

"Ah but I am not the man you desire," he said, despite looking exactly like the one she wanted. The scent of him seemed stronger all of a sudden. She didn't question it. She leaned closer, drinking in the masculine bouquet of the man she loved.

"Hold me," she said, soft.

The echo took her into his arms, folding her against his chest. He stroked her hair, tender, protective. She leaned against him, suddenly exhausted. She was tired of it all. Tired of waiting, tired of longing for a man she would never have. As though sensing her despondency, the echo picked her up and carried her to the bed. He knelt and lowered her onto the cover. He waited, watching her.

She reached up and touched his jaw, resisting the urge to trace her fingers over the scars on his cheek. She shivered, icicles of cold scouring through her. "Stay with me, and keep me warm," she murmured, suppressing another quavering shudder.

The echo caught her hand. He kissed her fingertips, slow. Keeping his eyes on hers, he undressed down to his leather breeches. He slipped down beside her and pulled her into his embrace, pillowing her head on his shoulder. She nestled up against him, shivering, longing to feel warmth.

He kissed her brow. "Sleep, sweet Idira," he whispered. "Dream of the one you love."

She sank, willing, into the welcoming arms of oblivion, dreaming of Khadgar's hidden life; reliving in rapid succession his sorrows, his battles, his fears, his longings, the brutal burden of his loneliness. The dream slowed. He stood over her, watching her sleep, his gaze raking over her, burning with longing. His look swept over his echo, holding her close, his expression changing, darkening. He turned away, riven with anguish, his eyes bleak, and blunted raw with jealousy.

* * *

Idira woke. The scent of leather, earth and cedar wood filling her senses. A shadow moved across the room. She caught her breath. It had been no dream. Khadgar had come to her after all. Numb with cold she waved her hand, sending the sleeping echo to another bedroom.

"Archmage?" she called. He stopped, his back to her, his shoulders stiff, his hands curling into fists. She suppressed a tremor of fear, recalling his hard, jealous look.

He turned and glanced at the bed, where his echo had just been, his expression unreadable. "I am sorry," he said, low. "I have intruded on your privacy." His words held no anger, only resignation. He turned to leave.

"Please," she blurted out, biting back a tremor of cold. "Don't go."

He stopped. She slid off the bed and went to him, sharp blades of cold slicing into her feet. "Stay with me," she whispered.

He took a step back, his gaze falling to her shift for a beat. His lips parted as he took in the fullness of her breasts; her nipples pressing against the sheer material, taut from her inner cold. "Idira, it isn't right," he said, hoarse. He looked back up at her, his chest rising and falling, agitated. "You are my apprentice, under my care."

"Look at me," she scoffed. "I stopped being your apprentice days ago."

"As you say," he said, ragged, his gaze straying down to her breasts once more. "But still, I will not stay."

Deep spikes of burning cold shot through her torso and legs. She caught her breath, staggering to keep upright. His arm came around her, pressing against him as he led her back to the bed. "You must sleep," he said, tight, "you have worked so hard. Rest. I will come back to you tomorrow."

She caught his sleeve as he turned to go, holding him back. He turned, abrupt, his eyes dark, smouldering.

"Please, just sleep beside me," she breathed, willing him to stay. She watched him as he waged his inner battle, his gaze straying to her breasts, continuing down to her hips, his lips parting as he reached her lace knickers. He exhaled, soft.

"It's all I ask," she said, sensing his resolve wavering as her eyelids drifted down, trapped in the numbing shock of cold, "you don't have to undress if you'd rather not." A harsh bolt of ice slammed into her. She shuddered, her eyes snapping open from the jolt of it. He was still looking at her, his gaze lingering on the lace edge of her knickers. "I'm cold," she shivered. "The echo cannot warm me, but you can. Please." She patted the bed beside her hip, enticing him.

He stood over her for several beats more, his chest rising and falling, his eyes almost black. He turned away, abrupt. Idira watched him, her heart pounding. He was going to leave after all. She bit her lip, her heart cracking. He hesitated beside a chair, his hand resting on its upholstered wing rail. He glanced back at her, rent by indecision. She waited, silently begging him to relent.

Several more heartbeats passed, slow. He scoffed, resigned and reached over his shoulder, pulling his staff from its holster, hesitating yet another heartbeat before setting it against the chair. His back to her, he removed his shoulder collar, boots and belt, dropping them onto the floor, a reckless heap.

Still wearing his tunic, he turned back to the bed, his expression veiled. She closed her eyes, her heart soaring as she heard the bed frame creak under his solid weight, drinking in his blazing warmth as he stretched out beside her. A heartbeat's hestitation, then his arms slid around her, pulling her against him, enclosing her in his scented warmth. She clung him, drinking in his heat, quaking as the deepest aches of cold eased from her body. Her fingertips grazed the base of his neck. He started, shocked by her icy touch.

"How can you stand it," he said, his voice soft, suddenly protective. He took her hand into his, chafing it, trying to warm her. When she remained cold, he murmured a spell. A fire blazed to life in the fireplace. He murmured another spell and a thick woollen blanket settled over them. She sighed, her sudden cocoon of warmth soothing her, bringing her back to life. His hand strayed to her face, his fingertips brushing her hair from her face, gentle. She glanced up at him and met his eyes, he answered her look, enigmatic, though his grip tightened on her, possessive.

"Thank you," she whispered, sliding her leg up to rest her inner thigh against his groin. She felt his member awakening, responding to her. Despite longing to see where things could go, the sudden release from her relentless cold had sent her tumbling into exhaustion. She fought it, but in the warmth of his embrace, she slid, helpless toward the realm of dreams, hoping and praying he would still be there when she woke.

* * *

Deep in the night, Idira opened her eyes, no longer cold. The room hung heavy in shadow, the walls glowing a dull orange, lit by the fading embers of the fire. She felt Khadgar moving, stealthy, away from her, edging to the side of the bed. He sat up, swinging his legs over the side. He reached down to pick up his things.

"Khadgar?" she asked, soft, her heart aching. He was going to leave after all.

He froze. She moved across the bed and knelt behind him, sliding her arms around him, embracing him, her breasts pressed against his back.

"I didn't think you were the type to leave a woman in the night," she said, quiet.

In her embrace, she felt the muscles in his arms tensing. She looked over his shoulder and saw his hands clenching, tight, into fists.

"Why me?" he asked, low, ragged. "I am almost twice your age. You could have anyone—"

"Age is nothing," she interrupted, a wave of relief tumbling through her; finally he had admitted the truth, acknowledged the forbidden attraction between them. He turned, his enigmatic steel-grey gaze filling with renewed turmoil as it drifted, helpless, down to her breasts, then back to her eyes. She licked her lips. His gaze fell, hungry, to her mouth, his pupils dilating, aroused. She leaned closer to him, allowing the outer curve of her breast to brush against his arm. "Since I have discovered my true power," she said, low, "I feel as though I am thousands of years old. And this place—it is saturated with your essence. I have learned much about you, of your past, the trials you have overcome, and of your suffering." His eyes left her mouth and met her eyes, the heat in his blistering, intense. Her heart began to pound, the way he was looking at her, made her feel as though he was making love to her already. She struggled to concentrate, to finish what she had begun. "You have suffered much, and always alone. Yet you have always remained good—despite terrible ordeals—your strength, your courage, and your honour have never wavered. You are everything I could ever want." She stopped, slain by the raw need churning in his eyes. He lifted his hand and traced his fingers over her lips. Trembling, she plunged on, whispering through his fingertips, "I have fallen in love with you. Your secrets are written in my heart, and I cherish them. If only you could—"

He didn't let her finish. He turned, moving so fast he startled her, his arms coming around her, possessive, lowering her onto the bed, his mouth covering hers, hungry, hot, fierce. She answered him, leaving him in no doubt what she wished of him, her fingers tangling with his, helping him as he pulled off his tunic. He shed the thing and knelt over her, clad only in his leather breeches, panting.

"I haven't . . ." he muttered, raking his hand through his hair, his eyes moving down the length of her, lingering on her lace knickers.

She gazed at him, drinking in the sight of him, his powerful body poised over hers, primed to make her his, her body caught in an agony of yearning, trapped between wanting to take her time and needing to feel him inside her, his body covering hers, moving together as one. She caught his hand and entwined her fingers in his. "You are also my first," she said, her throat tight with desire. "Let us find our way together my love."

His eyes darkened, possessiveness hardening the line of his jaw, enhancing the hungry slant of his lips. He leaned over her, his hand dropping to her hip, catching the filmy material of her gown in his grip. He pushed it up, rough, stopping just under the curve of her breast and traced the outline of her nipple with his thumb, slow, sending delicious tremors rippling through her torso. He groaned as her body responded, her nipple hardening. She arched her back, begging for him to continue. He bent and took her taut nipple in his mouth through the slippery material of her nightgown. Her hands went to his head, her fingers catching in his hair as he favoured first one, then her other nipple. He pulled back, his hands moving up to the neck of her gown.

"I want . . ." he said, his breathing ragged, his eyes raking over her. "I want this thing off you. Now." He pulled on the material, rending it in half. He shoved it aside, his hands sliding around her back, lifting her up against him, his arms tightening their hold, supporting her as his fingers tangled in her hair, holding her steady, his mouth moving over her neck and up to her ear, nipping her lobe. She shuddered, letting him control the pace, despite the ache between her legs rising to a blinding intensity, the hollow inside her throbbing, crying out for his girth to fill her. His mouth moved back to hers. He kissed her, fierce, ravenous. He pulled back, breathing hard.

"Bite your lip," he whispered, his eyes hard and hot on her mouth. She bit it, slow. He moaned, his fingers tightening in her hair. Before she finished, his mouth was back on hers, nipping her lips, his hands moving to her face, holding her still as he deepened his kiss. She opened her mouth under his gentle prodding, letting him taste her, caught in the strength of his arms, she sagged in his grip, her arousal overcoming her.

"Please," she gasped, as he drew back, his fingers tugging at the ties of his breeches. "Please. I need to feel you inside me."

"You will," he answered, as he peeled his breeches off, inside out. Kicking them onto the floor, he reached down and grasped the waistband of her knickers. He pulled them away, his eyes raking over the shape of her mound as he tossed the lace material onto the bed. He dragged her back up into his arms, devouring her mouth as he carried her down onto the bed and lowered himself over her, resting his weight on his elbows.

"If we do this, there will be no going back," he breathed, ragged, against her mouth. "I will be yours, and to the Void with the consequences."

She felt her nipples harden at his reckless words. He moved against her. His member, swollen with need, pressed against her thigh. She groaned, a spike of intense longing spearing deep into her, her need for him sudden, primal, urgent. She dug her fingers into his shoulders, her back arching, making her breasts, taut with arousal, press against his pectorals. "I never want to go back," she panted, breathless, starving for the feel of him. "I beg you. Love me, Khadgar."

He groaned and kissed her deep as he reached down between their legs and positioned himself against her. She opened her legs to him, feeling her sex sliding against his member, making it slick with her arousal. He pressed against her, gentle, careful, giving her time to accept him. She tilted her hips, easing his entry, letting him rock her as he made his way inside her, slow, her hips moving instinctively, kissing against his tenuous thrusts. She caught her breath as she felt the size of him as he invaded her, filling her, both frightening her and arousing her.

He took his time, easing his way in, watching her, his gaze smouldering with the heat of his restraint. He reached her barrier. A deep ache, harsh and filled with warning rived into her as he probed against her resistance. She caught her breath, her fingers biting deep into his shoulders. He held still, waiting, letting her decide the pace, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as he held her face in his hands, kissing her, tender, possessive, his breath tasting of wine. She bit her lip and bore down on him, wanting the pain to end, crying out as he breached her barrier and filled her completely. He stilled, his arms tightening around her.

He brushed his lips against her, tasting her trembling mouth as she lost her innocence to him. "I love you, Idira," he said against her parted lips. "Light help me, but I love you. Now. I am going to make you mine."

She clung to him as he moved against her, loving her until her pain melted away, transforming the rawness of her ache into rippling, then cascading waves of pleasure. She followed him, willing, as he lifted her up, holding her against him as he knelt beneath her, one with her, his powerful body surrounding her, sheltering her, possessing her, expressing his deepest love to her. He found a place inside her that sent her spiralling up to the stars. She writhed against him, her back arching as he steered her to heights of pleasure that left her breathless. When it was over, he held her as she sagged, shuddering in his embrace, kissing her gently as she returned to him from that nascent plateau, longing to climb up to it again.

Still cradling her against him, he leaned back against the headboard and stroked her hair. He gave her wine, sharing a single cup with her, drinking from the same place her lips touched, his eyes never leaving hers, intimate, intense, dark. Catching her hand in his, he tasted her fingertips, sending shivers of pleasure shimmying through her. He caught her chin and lifted her face to his, kissing her, deep, his thumbs straying once more to her nipples, arousing her, the rawness of his need awakening her anew. She bit her lip, shy, and asked him to take her again. His eyes hot, he pulled her onto his lap, his hands and mouth moving over her, bruising and rough, his dominance overwhelming her, his brutal hunger driving her to an altogether different place of pleasure. He entered her, his thrusts deep and powerful, no longer holding back, his hands tightening around her torso, supporting her as she moved against him, finding her rhythm, his teeth sliding against her neck, nipping, biting the tender flesh under her ear, his passion awakening an ache she could only satisfy with him deep inside her. He carried her again to the plateau of her greatest pleasure, holding her as she shuddered against him, panting with her release.

They fell back against the pillows, drinking more wine, once more sharing the same cup. He eyed her as he took the empty cup from her and set it aside.

"You read my journal," he said against her brow, twining his fingers together with hers. "I watched you."

"I'm sorry," Idira whispered, feeling her cheeks darken, ashamed. He caught her chin, tilting her head up so he could look at her.

"And did you like what you read?" he asked, a glimmer of heat flickering in his eyes.

"Very much," she breathed, caught by the intensity of his look.

"I could have teleported it from you while you read," he said, his lips touching hers.

"But you didn't," she sighed, opening her mouth a little as he traced his the tip of his tongue along the inside of her lips.

"I couldn't," he groaned, letting their kiss deepen. He pulled back, continuing, "Watching you read my journal, clad in that impossible thing. I wanted it to last all night." His fingers drifted over the contours of her body, caressing the curve of breasts, the crest of her mound, the hollow of her hips, the inside of her thighs, worshipping her. Aroused once more, he carried her to the sumptuous sofa and stood behind her, taking her from behind, gentle at first, then harder, owning her, his hand wrapping in her hair, catching it in his fist, sending her quivering, sobbing, into her release as he slammed into her, the fingers of his other hand biting, harsh, into her hip as he buried himself deep inside her, staggering as he rode out the intensity of his orgasm.

He lowered her onto the sofa, gentle once more, holding her as they returned, panting from their euphoria. He conjured food—apologising it wasn't her favourite, whitescale salmon, promising she would have it the next day—feeding her fruit and cheese, his eyes darkening as she licked his fingertips. She drank the wine he offered her, heaviness dragging on her as he kissed her brow, full of affection, telling her to rest. She slept for a time, content, suffused in his warmth, her body pleasantly aching where he had taken his fill of her. She woke, hearing her name whispered against her ear. She turned to him, lost in his arms, her hair tangling in his fingers as he kissed her awake, murmuring his request to let him love her just one more time.

At her soft smile, he carried her back to the bed and for the fourth time that night, made her his, his movements slow and tender, his lips gentle against her bruised and swollen ones, loving her until she gasped, caught by the sudden intensity of her release, her eyes locked on his. He followed her, his arms tight around her, holding her against him, shuddering with the strength of his own release, his fingers wrapped around her head, his lips lingering on hers. He rolled onto his back, pulling her on top of him, keeping himself inside her, holding her fast against him, protected, cherished, cradled, safe within his arms.

He murmured a spell and a new fire burst to life in the fireplace, slowing the inexorable creep of cold stealing back into her body. He reached out, gifting her with a lingering kiss on her brow as he leaned over and pulled the blanket around her. She sighed, savouring the solidness of him; the heat of him. She dozed, exhaustion sliding over her, tugging at her, insistent, dragging her toward oblivion. She clung to him as long as she could, not wanting the tender quiet of their intimacy to end.

She lasted several heartbeats more before her body betrayed her, sinking into the softness of sleep. Just as she succumbed, she heard him whisper, anguished, against her hair, "To finally feel what it means to love at Azeroth's darkest hour . . . how shall I lead now I know true fear? To lose you is unthinkable. Light help me . . . Light help me."


	21. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER 19**

* * *

Within her dreams, Idira passed Dalaran's Legerdemain Lounge on her way back from the Observatory, her arms laden with folders destined to go back to the archives. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee wafted from the open doors of the exclusive coffee house. She went inside, but there was no one there, the furniture stood against the walls, stacked away so the floor could be cleaned, the baristas gone and the coffee machines silent. Drawn by the intensifying scent, she went upstairs and pushed the door open to one of the guest rooms. She looked in and saw herself sleeping on the bed in Khadgar's sanctuary, the Leader of the Kirin Tor looking down at her, his expression aching with love.

"Idira," he whispered, reaching out to brush the hair from her brow, "wake up."

She stirred, languid, and opened her eyes, waking. Khadgar sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, watching her, his eyes soft, filled with tenderness. On the bedside table, a mug of coffee steamed, its rich aroma filling the air. She smiled. The cause of her dream.

"That coffee smells good," she murmured, indulging in a luxuriant stretch.

Khadgar leaned over and brushed his lips against hers, leaving behind his familiar scent, cedarwood, leather and warm earth. He turned and retrieved a wrapped bundle from the bed, presenting it with a flourish.

"A little something from the Council's breakfast table," he said, looking pleased with himself as he opened it. A pile of croissants tumbled out, their warm buttery scent mixing with the coffee's. Idira's mouth watered. Croissants were a luxury only the very wealthy could afford.

She sat up and pulled a feathery tendril from the nearest pastry, exclaiming with delight as it melted, buttery and warm on her tongue. Khadgar held out her coffee, his eyebrow quirking, betraying his satisfaction. She took the mug and sipped, sighing. He really did conjure the best coffee.

"Once you have breakfasted, we must work," he said, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of her hair behind her ear.

A tremor of pleasure rippled through her. "Together?" she asked, popping another luxurious bite of croissant into her mouth.

He looked away, a moment of unease slicing over his features, quickly suppressed. He looked back at her again, his steel-grey eyes veiled. "Your ability to be able to transcend closed teleports has lead the Council to believe that you might be able to open two barriers which so far no one else has found a way to overcome apart from brute force, which, if used would only make matters worse. Impossible, in fact."

Idira leaned back against the headboard, eyeing the Leader of the Kirin Tor. He looked away again, but not before she saw a finger of dread slide behind his eyes.

"Tell me," she whispered, bracing herself for the worst.

Khadgar got up and went to the fireplace, his gaze falling to the empty grate. He crossed his arms over his chest. "I believe you are aware Gul'dan has the body of the Betrayer and is using it to create an avatar for the Titan Sargeras; I recall you sorted the papers regarding that matter?" He glanced up, abrupt, waiting for her affirmation, his look no longer that of a lover, but a leader, tense, burdened by the weight of his terrible responsibilities. Idira nodded, wary.

He began to pace, his eyes on the stone-flagged floor. "We believe the quickest way to stop what is to come is to remove the Betrayer's body from the Chamber of the Eye. Without a body, there is no avatar." He glanced at her again. "By using ancient magic, I have found the way in: a concealed and warded tunnel which cuts under the channel separating the Broken Shore from a small islet called Hope's End, leading straight into the foundation of the Tomb of Sargeras and the Chamber of the Eye. Hpwever, the wards have proven difficult to read. Even I cannot unlock the deepest ones. But the Council believes _you_ can, since you are able to use closed teleports." He stopped his pacing, falling into his thoughts for several moments. He shook himself, continuing, "Well, at least we need to try. If you can read them, we will need you to open the way for the party going in tomorrow to retrieve not only the Betrayer's body but also the consort of Malfurion, the Lady Tyrande, who was abducted by Gul'dan over a week ago."

Idira lifted her brow. She had braced herself for the worst and Khadgar had certainly delivered. She caught him watching her, intent. Nodding her understanding, she picked up another croissant and bit into it, wondering how he would be able to get them into the Legion's stronghold undetected. Her thoughts scattered, hijacked, as the most delightful, warm, sweet liquid swam across her taste buds. She lifted the pastry up, examining it. A dark brown liquid, viscous and glistening, pooled within the hollow centre of the croissant.

"What is this?" she asked, her mouth thick with its sticky sweetness.

Khadgar stopped pacing, taken aback. "Have you never tasted chocolate before?"

She didn't answer, she couldn't, she was in raptures, how could something as marvellous as this exist, and she had never heard of it? Uncaring of the stickiness of her fingers, she gobbled up the rest of the croissant, turning to root through the remaining ones, breaking them apart, searching for more chocolate. She found two more chocolate centres, her delight at her sudden bounty filling her with joy.

She glimpsed Khadgar's lips quirking into a smile as he returned to the bed and joined her, pushing himself up against the headboard, his legs stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He conjured a mug of coffee, settling back to enjoy it, watching her as she ate, though his look was one of affection, not arousal.

With a satisfied sigh, she finished the last of her breakfast, casting a small spell to cleanse the chocolate from her hands. Khadgar eased his arm around her and brought her up against him. She settled into the crook of his arm and sipped the last of her coffee, content.

"So, you are a frost mage, then?" he asked, chafing her arm, warming her.

She scoffed. "I have no idea how you were able to figure that out."

"A wild guess," he said, wry as he set his empty mug onto the bedside table. "Do you suffer much from it?"

She nodded, biting her lip, recalling how numb she had been before he had arrived in the night, the cold grinding into her, relentless, brutal. He took hold of her chin and lifted her face to his, his eyes darkening. "That drives me crazy, just so you know."

Unable to stop herself, she bit her lip harder, teasing him. He groaned and pushed himself from the bed. "No, don't start that." He held out his hand to her. "Come, the font awaits. We have work to do."

"The font?" she asked as she took his hand, letting him pull her from her cocoon.

"The locked door, down the hall, it lays within," he answered, giving her an oblique look. "It can carry our spirits into the corridors of time and space where we may move about undetected."

She shuddered, repulsed by the thought of having to return to that dark doorway. "I read Medivh's notes regarding such a thing," she said, "though he did not call it a font. He said it is a dark relic from the time of the Faceless Ones, its main purpose to grant them a return from death, a kind of repeatable immortality paid for with the souls of innocents. It is a thing of pure evil."

"Yes, among other things, it was used for that," Khadgar admitted, terse. "But the font is also able to transcend time and space." He crossed his arms once more over his chest, continuing, "There will be wards in place. You must trust me, I will not let any harm come to you." He glanced down at her naked body, his gaze stalling on the bruising imprint of his fingers against her hips. "I hurt you," he murmured, a look of shame shearing, abrupt, into his preoccupied expression. "Forgive me."

She glanced down at the marks he had left on her, a ripple of pleasure shimmering through her as she recalled the way he had held her, fast in his grip as he took her, his lovemaking so passionate it had teetered on the brink of violence. She waved her hand. The injury faded away. She smiled up at him. "All better now."

He turned away, uneasy. "I was too rough with you. I won't let that happen again."

"Oh?" she teased. "That's a shame."

He turned back, his voice hardening, clipped with hard-won restraint. "Stop. I beg you. Right now, you are the Council's best hope to open the way to the Chamber undetected. To do so you must travel with me through that unspeakable thing to a dark and terrible place. A place crafted out of the deepest evil, echoing with the cries of souls ripped free from living men, women and children. Idira, for the love of the Light, prepare yourself."

"Forgive me," she murmured, feeling her cheeks colour, chastened by both his look and his words. He might be her lover, but he was also the Leader of the Kirin Tor, a man overwhelmed by terrible responsibility, and deserving of her deepest respect. She closed her eyes and concentrated on manifesting her full regalia. Her Light awakened, weaving itself around her, tendrils of darting lights, moving up from her feet, over her body and down her arms. She opened her eyes. Her silver-white gown shimmered over her form, its neckline, waist and hips accented with glittering diamonds. Silver thread shot through the material, covering it with embroidered frost runes. She turned to the mirror. A silver circlet, embossed with glowing violet runes wove through her upswept hair. She held out her hand and a silver staff manifested, crackling with power, its crown encircled with threads of white light. Her Light settled, falling to a deep thrum inside her, active, yet passive, waiting, anticipating. The temperature in the room dropped, frost iced over her skin, making it glimmer in the light of the arcane lamps.

Khadgar gazed at her, reverent. "My Lady," he breathed, sinking to his knee, "I am not worthy of you."

Dismayed, she touched his shoulder, urging him back to his feet. He rose, shaking his head, marvelling at her transformation, his eyes following the darting tendrils of violet light encompassing her body. "Never do that again," she said, earnest. "To you, at least, I must be Idira."

"And so it shall be, my love," he answered, soft.

"Then let us do this thing," she said, her Light resonating, beating within her like a bird trapped in a cage, desperate to be freed, driving her onward. "I am ready. Take me to the font."

* * *

The font was enormous. It stood in the centre of an austere windowless hall, its dark stone floors and walls stripped bare of furnishings, tapestries and rugs. Supported by an ancient ashlar of stone, the contents of its wide, shallow basin undulated as they approached, its viscous, metallic fluid shifting, a greasy, molten silver. A shudder of revulsion rippled through Idira as she sensed its sentience, quivering as it followed them around the room, reacting to their presence. Behind the font, a narrow stone staircase butted up against the plinth, leading up to the basin. Freed of her body, she stood in spirit form beside Khadgar on the top step and looked back at their bodies held immobilised within an arcane force field; arcane runes spinning and rotating around them, enclosing them in a complex web of intricate blue light.

Frozen in time, Khadgar stood positioned in the casting stance, holding her protectively against him with one arm, while casting with his other hand, his staff held outward, its crown glowing with arcane energy. She had rested her head against his shoulder as she waited, her hand against his chest, frost riming the front of his collar where her fingers touched the material. The pain had come soon after. Ice and fire had sluiced into her, releasing the bonds which connected her body to her spirit. It had been most unpleasant. How Khadgar could have gone down this path more than once told her just how committed he was to the protection of Azeroth, even beyond his own brutal suffering. She endured the agony of her terrifying transition from corporeal to incorporeal, feeling his hand finding hers, holding it tight, reassuring her, reminding her he was there with her, that she was not alone.

Before he had opened the door to the shadowy room he had told her they would only have one hour within the font for her to complete her readings. Quavering with dread anticipation, she looked down at the quivering meniscus within the basin. An hour? Even a minute in that thing would be too long. As though reading her thoughts, Khadgar squeezed her hand again, reassuring her. Before they left their bodies behind, she had added an additional spell of her own, enabling them to speak to each other through their thoughts, a spell she had discovered encrypted deep within one of Medivh's books, buried in his office, something Khadgar had missed.

 _Are you ready?_ Khadgar asked.

 _Yes,_ she answered.

 _Follow me into the font._

She felt him move away as he stepped into the basin, his hand lifting up to steady her so she could follow him in. She hesitated for a heartbeat then lifted her gown to step over the basin's ridge. Her foot came down into the liquid, feeling nothing. It was as though she had stepped into thin air, despite seeing the metallic liquid swirling around the outline of her foot. She brought her other foot down and watched, horrified as the liquid swam around the outline of her gown's hem, creeping upwards.

Khadgar pulled her against him. _Don't look._

She slid her arms around his torso, trying and failing not to look down at the liquid slithering up, moving toward her waist, terror clawing at her.

 _Hold on tight. Do not let go._

She nodded, tightening her grip on him, sensing his concentration as he cast the incantation which would carry them to their destination.

In a heartbeat, the font disappeared and she found herself within a damp, dark, claustrophobic tunnel, the entire corridor cut from living stone. Fel torches dotted its length, lurid pools of sickly green light stretching away into the shadowy distance.

Her Light bloomed, awakening, reacting to the Legion's foul taint; scenting the dark magic which lurked, hostile and malevolent at both ends of the tunnel, paid for with the souls of the living. Her senses prickling, she moved forward, her Light already intuiting the complicated weave of the wards blocking the tunnel, finally understanding Khadgar's difficulty in unravelling them. The wards were not only the work of the necromancer Gul'dan. Deep within them, at the weave's core lay the darkest wards of all, enhanced by the power of a Titan.

Her Light tugged on her, guiding her. She moved away, Khadgar's hand capturing hers, ensuring their tenuous contact. He followed after her to the end of the tunnel, waiting as she pressed her hand against the solid stone blocking the way out. Through the residue of its wards, she saw the tunnel let out into a large cave, half-filled by the ruins of an ancient Elven temple. The weaves were layered, complex and dangerous, crafted to ensure there was no way through apart from using the magic made for them—the magic the Council needed her to decode, magic only someone belonging to the Legion could see and use. Or, someone like her. It took her several painstaking, time-consuming tries to work out its order: seven layers, designed to change over time and reassemble into a different order to further ensure no one but one of Gul'dan's inner circle could use them.

 _Can you take us back in time, slowly, over the past three days?_ she asked.

 _Yes, of course._ Khadgar began to scroll back through time, stopping at various intervals whenever she asked him to, so she could check the patterns. Satisfied she had learned all she could, she asked him to take them into the future: perhaps there might be hidden wards awaiting them, she wanted to be certain she had checked all the possibilities. He moved them forward in time, the wards clicking into place just as she suspected they would. They had progressed into the afternoon of the next day when she felt a lurch, as though hitting a wall.

 _Strange._ He said, and tried again, she felt herself pushing against a bubble of resistance, heavy with the weight of time. She shoved hard, using all her will, fearing a hidden ward she might be missing. She burst through, a flash of her Light blinding her as she stumbled out alone out on the other side.

A woman, the same woman she had seen on the sabre cat in the Violet Citadel, stood before her future self in a large circular room, the floor blazing with fel runes; a massive portal to the Nether gaping like a festering wound in the wall, its edges framed by more glowing runes, the colour of pestilence. The woman spoke, in the voice of a powerful male. No longer beautiful, the Elven queen's face and body had been ravaged almost beyond recognition, only her eyes remained intact, flaming with fel fire. Idira watched, horrified, realising she was looking at her future, when she would confront the Titan's avatar.

Her future self, wearing her full regalia, reached out and touched the Titan's avatar, her fingers glowing, brilliant with her Light, consuming the power imprisoning Tyrande, freeing her. Tyrande fell, and the being Sargeras emerged, hovering at the threshold of the portal to the Nether, enraged, a flaming thing of pure energy. The Titan's burning eyes met hers. He hissed one word: Azeroth. In response, a brilliant flash of violet light flared out from the torso of her future self, the entire room pulsating with Azeroth's blinding, cleansing Light. The Light faded. Wounded and bloodied, Khadgar crawled across the ravaged room to a metallic object laying on the floor. He picked it up and clutched it against his chest, over his heart, his face twisted with anguish. She stared, disbelieving at the item in his hands. Her silver circlet. Of her and the Titan, there was no sign. The runes on the floor lay dormant, extinguished. The portal to the Nether gone, replaced by the ashlars of the stone structure. She looked around, frantic, it had to be a mistake, she was somewhere else, thrown aside by the blast.

Tyrande, the night elf woman, still remained, her ravaged, bleeding body caught up into the arms of a male night elf, also bloodied and injured, who wept over her limp form. Two more bodies lay on the floor, mutilated beyond recognition and the crushed remains of something made of glass lay scattered amongst the debris. But of herself, there was no evidence. It was as though she had never existed. She sank to her knees, disbelieving. No. It couldn't be. This was not how it was to end. To defeat the Titan, Azeroth's Light would need to consume her, obliterate her? Her whole existence was meant for this? To cease to exist? She staggered, unable to comprehend why she had been the one chosen for this horrible destiny. What had she done to deserve such a terrible end? She wanted to scream, but she had no voice, her heart stuttered as she caught sight of Khadgar's desolation, his eyes haunted, disbelieving, stricken, her name on his lips. She screamed, in total silence, her soul rending in two, shorn apart. She reeled, plummeting into darkness, riven by loss and despair.

Pain slammed into her, harsh, jagged, shattering her into a thousand pieces, the force of it blinding her. Smears of colour danced at the edges of her vision. An epochal silence surrounded her, the colours faded. Darkness. She weighed of nothing. A voice, faint, called to her. She swam towards it, frightened. Khadgar? No, not Khadgar, another. They called again. A familiar voice, filled with love, urging her to them.

A hand grasped hold of hers, firm, dragging her back. She plunged backwards, barrelling through the darkness, back through the circular chamber, past Khadgar, bleeding and kneeling on the floor, clutching her circlet against his heart, past her future self confronting the Titan's avatar, and onwards, through the barrier, and into the arms of Khadgar, holding her tight against him; surrounded once more by the fel light of the tainted tunnel.

She sagged in his grip, quaking, her thoughts in chaos, as the awful, terrible truth slammed into her. Her whole life had only been lived for one purpose: to face the Titan, and to stop him. She was nothing without her Light, and once she channelled the Light of Azeroth into the Titan's avatar, her body would not survive, the power needed would be too great, would tear her apart until there was nothing left of her. She struggled to elide the path of her life with the cost of being chosen as the Light's vessel. No. It was too much. It was unbearable, the burden too great. She had never been given a choice, never even been warned. Her life had only just begun and now she was to lose it?

Khadgar's arms tightened around her; the memory of him clutching her silver circlet against his heart seared through her mind. And what about him? Guilt clawed at her. She should not have persisted in trying to tempt him. Her Light had never promised him to her and he had done his best to do what was right by resisting her. Her selfish determination to make the supposed fairytale of her life story come true was going to exact a terrible price. He was the Leader of the Kirin Tor, with grave responsibilities and obligations. He was not a man to be trifled with, to act out her childish ideals of love conquering all. Far better for him if she had been nothing more than another journal entry, another woman to add to his list of women he had loved from afar. He asked her how she was, but she couldn't answer. What could she say? She couldn't tell him the truth, that tomorrow she would cease to exist. He had a world to save.

She shuddered, stricken, devastated, unable to stop the relentless march of the pieces of her life rearranging themselves, revealing her true path, glaring, brutal, cruel. Pain slashed through her, tearing at her, the disjunct of passing the threshold of her death while still alive fragmenting her. Agony sheared at her, clawing at her from the inside out, the rending far more brutal than the severance she had endured to enter the font. It worsened, deepening, making it difficult for her to think; she suspected the time disjunct had made her connection to the font unstable, her continued presence within it might even be killing her. She needed to get out of the font, and soon.

She turned, trembling and weak, staggering from the slicing rifts of darkness scything into her, her spirit struggling to maintain its integrity against the unstoppable forces tearing at it—ignoring Khadgar's rising concern, his need for reassurance she was not harmed—progressing as fast as she could down the tunnel. At the tunnel's termination, she went to work again sensing and reading the wards, again asking to go back in time, for three days, but all of her readings came back the same as before. Sagging with relief, she turned to him, sliding her arms around him, shuddering, broken.

 _I have learned all I can,_ she said. _Please, take us away from this place._

He brought them back through the font and led her down its steps to where their bodies stood, immobile. She juddered, enduring the searing pain of ice and fire as their spirits merged with their bodies. When it was over, she clung to him, quaking, barely able to remain conscious, pain continuing to sear through her. Blood dripped from her nose, mouth and eyes, freezing on her skin.

With a cry of alarm, Khadgar swept her up and carried her to the bed, conjuring a bowl of warm water and fresh linens, cleaning the blood away and pressing compresses against her nose and mouth, cursing with frustration when the linens began to freeze. She lay passive to his ministrations, letting him tend to her, hopelessness paralysing her. He changed the compresses continuously, but despite the pressure he applied, she continued to bleed.

He took hold of her shoulders, giving her a shake. "Idira," he said, his voice taut with fear, "are you aware?"

She pulled herself toward his voice and opened her eyes, noticing the pile of bloodied linens beside him, the desperation in his eyes. She called to her Light. The bleeding slowed, and finally stopped. Another spell and her regalia disappeared, replaced by a simple robe, the frost on her skin melting away. She felt his hand on hers, chafing her, trying to warm her. He lit another fire, and covered her with the blanket. Shivering, she curled into herself, turning her back to him, despair consuming her. Tomorrow she would be gone forever. Azeroth was a cruel mistress after all.

Khadgar's fingers moved against her head, stroking her hair, his movements taut with apprehension. The mattress shifted as he lowered his weight onto it and lay down behind her, pulling her freezing body against his, chafing her, trying warm her. She lay silent and unresponsive in his embrace, her heart aching, letting him do his work. His murmurs of concern finally pierced through her shroud of depression. She shifted in his embrace, turning to face him, her heart breaking anew at the sight of his steel-grey eyes gazing at her, consumed with trepidation.

"I will be able to open the tunnel tomorrow without Gul'dan knowing," she said, quiet.

He watched her, uneasy, waiting for her to say more. When she didn't, he brushed her hair from her face, his tenderness nearly undoing her. "Won't you tell me what it is that is troubling you?" he asked, her eyes searching hers.

She closed her eyes, fearing he might see the truth in them. She would never tell him. Never. She felt a tear slip free. He kissed it away, waiting for her answer.

"Just love me," she whispered against his neck, desperate to escape the darkness consuming her. "I need to forget."

With an anguished groan, he undressed her and gently made love to her, cradling her against him as though she were made of porcelain, his kisses soft and tender, and when she cried out with her release, her tears were not tears of joy, but sorrow.

He dressed afterwards, quiet, watching her, his eyes dark with concern as he prepared to return to his duties at the Citadel. He promised he would return that evening with her favourite dinner, asking her to wait up for him. She watched him leave, her throat so tight she could barely breathe. He vanished. On the other side of his teleport, he walked away; she watched him, crushed by the unbearable burden of her knowledge. Dragging his pillow against her chest, she drank in his lingering scent, grieving at how little time she had left to love him. Unable to hold back her heartache any longer, she bent her face against his pillow and wept.

* * *

She stirred, waking, her face tight with dried tears, her eyes gritty from crying. She sat up and stared at the fading teleport, bleak, a fresh spear of grief lancing through her.

"So," Khadgar's echo said, standing up from one of the wing-back chairs and making his way over to the bed, "it seems I might be of more use to you than just keeping you company, after all." He held out his hand. She took it and let him pull her up from the bed. He looked her over, arching an eyebrow. He cleared his throat, meaningfully.

She glanced down at herself, realising she stood naked before him. Her dress had been neatly hung over the top of the folding screen. Her heart lurched, Khadgar must have put it there, the man who always dropped his expensive clothing onto the floor into a heap, had taken the time to hang up her old, threadbare dress.

"How long have you been in here?" she asked, dull, as she pulled the dress over her head.

"Long enough," the echo replied, shrugging.

"You didn't watch us?" Idira asked, momentarily shocked out of her despondency.

"Hmm," he answered, oblique, looking away. "I came back after Khadgar left to break his fast, watched you sleep for awhile, waiting for you to wake up, was about to go to the library when he came back with those delicious buns—which I watched you gobble up like a little pig, not even thinking to save me a single one." He looked so put out, mirroring the look of a petulant child, Idira would have laughed if her heart had not ached so much.

"So you watched us," she said, flat.

"Hmm," he said again. He glanced at her. "You do realise _I am_ his echo? Everything he experiences I experience. I didn't get much sleep last night, thanks to you."

Idira felt her cheeks begin to flame, she ducked her head, embarrassed. "I hadn't thought of that. Is there a way to turn it off?"

"Turn it—?" the echo repeated, astonished. "No, there is no way to 'turn it off', unless you send me back to the Nether."

"Are you . . . jealous?" Idira asked, seeing his gaze moving over the rumpled blankets on the bed, his fists clenching, exactly like Khadgar had done when he had seen her with the echo.

"Who, me?" the echo asked. "Jealous? Of him? Of course not. No. Not at all."

"You are," Idira breathed. "But you have no . . . "

"Yes, I know it well," the echo answered, sharp, "but I can still feel his feelings, know his thoughts. The man is lost to you, would die for you. And now . . . No. Absolutely not, I am not jealous of him. Not knowing what he is going to have face tomorrow."

His blunt words hit her so hard, she staggered. For just a moment, she had been distracted from her pain. But now, seeing the look of anguish on the echo's face, she felt sick, realising the echo was already experiencing Khadgar's pain, anticipating his fall, having learned the truth from her thoughts.

"What is going to happen to him?" she asked, low.

The echo turned to her. He eyed her, desolate. "He will not recover. Bitterness will claim him, and he will abandon his duties to use the font, his intention to remain within it, living in the past with you until his body dies of hunger."

Her legs gave out. She sank down onto the cold stone flags of the floor. "What have I done?" she whispered, remorse tearing her apart. "Oh Light. What have I done?"

The echo lowered his hand to her. "Get up," he said, rough. "You're no use to him moping about on the floor." Bridling a little, she thrust her hand into his.

"I have a plan," he said as she came back to her feet. "It's not much, but it should keep Khadgar out of the font, give him the will to go on and get him through the worst days to come." He pulled on her hand, leading her out into the corridor. "That's the good news. The bad news is we're going to have to use the font."

"No," Idira said, letting go of his hand. "I won't go back to that thing. There has to be another way."

The echo turned, bearing down on her. "You made this mess," he said, cold. "You need to clean it up. It's not always about you, you know."

Idira pulled away from him, stung, biting back a blistering retort. Though his words cut deep, he was right. It wasn't all about her. But still. The font? That thing was dangerous. It had almost killed her. "What about my Light," she offered, "couldn't we use that instead of the font?"

"No."

"Why not?" Idira persisted, annoyed by his terse reply.

"Because, there are other potentialities at play," the echo snapped, suddenly fractious, "things that the Light would prevent that the font won't. I like to keep your options open."

"Options?" she repeated, confused. "What sort of options?"

"Second chances," the echo said, vague. "There are other variables that would have to come into play, but this way, they are at least possible. It would be up to Khadgar to decide if he wishes to avail himself of them or not."

The echo wasn't looking her in the eye. He knew something and wasn't telling, and from the look on his face, he wasn't going to tell, either. She decided to change tactics.

"Couldn't we just destroy the font," she broached, "so Khadgar can't use it?"

The echo laughed, abrupt. "Have you not yet realised Khadgar is a man of secrets?" He waved his hand, encompassing the length of the corridor. "Just what do you think is holding this fortress intact outside of space and time, hmm?"

She licked her lips, nervous, and glanced at the forbidden door, warded, sealed, locked.

The echo followed her gaze. "That's right. Destroy it, and—" he waved his hand again, "—all of this ceases to exist, the library, the books, Medivh's office, you, even me, obliterated by the impossibility of our material presence in a place immaterial."

He waited for her to digest his words, looking exactly like Khadgar, his hands on his hips, frowning down at her, severe. She nodded, resigned, and moved to the door.

"Before we go in there," she said as he joined her, placing his hands against the door, working to remove the wards. "Tell me what you plan to do. This time I want to be prepared."

He cut a look at her. "I am going to make your echo, and imbed her into the fortress. She won't materialise until after you have gone to the Light, hopefully sooner rather than later."

"Oh," Idira breathed, both impressed and disturbed by the thought. "Wait," she said, as a troubling new thought rose up, "I made you out of Khadgar's raven with my Light. What will we make my echo from?"

The echo paused in his work. "What will be my purpose once tomorrow's events have passed?" he asked, his voice softening. "The font can create an echo for the price of a soul. I can think of no better use for my existence than to do this. Anyway, I rather like the idea of not having to go back to the Nether, waiting to be remade for evil."

"But you said you were made out of the stuff of the Nether," Idira said, perplexed by his logic. "You don't have a soul."

The echo looked down at the door. He clenched his jaw. "When I told you I was made of the stuff of the Nether, I wasn't being entirely honest," he paused to look at her, guilt cutting its way through his eyes.

"Go on," Idira said, tentative, her skin suddenly prickling.

"Aeons ago, in another universe," he began, low, his voice hard with shame, "I was a god, soulless." He leaned back against the door frame and looked down the corridor, crossing his arms over his chest, avoiding her eyes. "My power was absolute. At first I sought to do good, but after thousands of years I became tired of mortals and their unending greed, pettiness and wanton destruction. I turned against them, growing depraved as my hatred deepened, hungering only for blood, ruin, suffering and death. The crimes I committed were so heinous that the Creator of all life destroyed my corrupt world, and turned my immortal body into a soul, sending it to the Nether, fully conscious, never to be broken down and reborn." He glanced at her, uneasy. "The Nether is terrible place to be conscious. While other souls exist in full awareness for a just a brief flicker of time before the Nether's relentless pressure breaks them apart, granting them the oblivion of the great dark until it is their time to be reborn, I drifted, alone and outcast, crushed by the timeless, epochal silence. Every now and again, I was able to escape by joining with those who have the power to call recently passed spirits from the Nether, but those who do such things are usually practitioners of the darkest arts." He paused, a spasm of deep anguish passing behind his eyes. "The things I have been forced to do, things so abominable," he said, shuddering, "even thinking of them makes me long for the release of eternal death. No. I will not let you believe me a hero. By manifesting me here in this place, you have granted me a way out of the endless cycle of my suffering. To create your echo, the font will need to extinguish a soul, but I welcome it. I have suffered enough for what I have done. I long for annihilation."

Idira stared at him, stunned. A god. That explained the vanity, arrogance, his cold logic, his spoiled, childish pique over the croissants. "Will my echo—?" she couldn't bring herself to ask, wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"Have my memories?" he finished for her, reading her thoughts. "No. She will be you. My soul will merely be the fuel to create her." He turned back to the door, continuing the work of removing the wards. The door swung open, silent, driven by its own magic. Her heart thudding, Idira eyed the font, sensing it waiting for them, the liquid in its basin rippling. It sat there, dark and malevolent, somehow sentient, watching them, reminding Idira of a spider, crouched low against the ground, waiting to strike its prey.

The echo held out his hand. "Are you ready?" he asked, quiet.

Idira hesitated. "Tell me your real name. I deserve to know who is giving up their soul for my echo to be created."

He looked at her, intrigued. "How unusual you are. So unique," he said, eyeing her with genuine admiration. "But my name?" he winced. " _That_ is the only thing I can't remember. The Creator took it from me when he sent me to the Nether. Ah, but it is of no matter for I have had many names since then, all of them meaningless. Just call me The Echo, it suits me well enough, don't you think? Come," he took her hand, and positioned her in front of the font. "Stand here, and do not move until it is over." He kissed her brow, soft. "Farewell Daughter of Azeroth," he said, turning to make his way up the steps behind the font, "may the Creator reward you well." He stepped into the basin. The silver liquid stirred and began to creep up his boots, coating them in its residue. He closed his eyes.

"Wait!" she burst out. "How will I know when it is over?"

He opened his eyes and threw her a cavalier smile, brave, valiant, reckless. He looked at her, full of admiration, Khadgar but not Khadgar, dying forever so Khadgar would not. "Why, when it has consumed me, of course," he said, soft.

And then, she watched, horrified, as he uttered the ancient incantations and the font awakened, hungry; its mercurial liquid slithering up his legs, across his torso and up to his neck, encasing him in its cruel grip.

* * *

When it was over, Idira rose up from the floor, trembling. She must have blacked out near the end. She backed away, wary, her flesh creeping with horror, keeping her eyes fixed on the sated font, which stood deathly quiet after its feeding. The thing had torn The Echo apart. shearing him into hundreds of thousands of pieces, all of them identical, tiny cubes; no blood, no gore, just an eye-watering amount of swirling cubes, each no bigger than a pin's head, his screams of agony still ringing in her ears, even when he was no longer whole, his scream carried on, as though coming from a great distance. She shuddered and pulled the door closed behind her, throwing up wards, covering it, frantic, her hands flying over the wooden surface in her haste to lock the font away, using every possible combination she could think of.

She stepped back, her breathing shallow. A memory stirred, visceral, of what the font had done to her while she was unconscious. She staggered back, hitting the opposite wall, her hands covering her mouth as the memory replayed in all of its bizarre horror. Two silvery tentacles had arced up from the basin, reminding her of vipers about to strike. They had darted down and wrapped around her inert body, their touch freezing cold, their lengths containing thousands of feelers, sharp like needles, tasting her, reading her, imprinting her into itself. Smaller tentacles calved from the main tendrils and slid up around her head, probing into her mouth, nose, eyes and ears, cold, sharp, unfeeling, delving into her brain.

When it was finally done, the calved tentacles merged back with the two larger ones. Fat and heavy with her imprint, they slithered back across the floor to the font to rise up once more, spiralling, slow at first, then faster, around the centre of the basin, forming into a double helix. Within its vortex, thousands of tiny cubes swarmed up from the silver liquid, moving back and forth, like a flock of birds, forming, taking shape, solidifying into a perfect copy of herself. The tentacles slowed their spin, and slithered back into the basin. The woman looked down at herself, then around, curious, biting her lip, self-conscious. She stepped out of the font's basin and walked down the steps, wearing a precise copy of Idira's old and faded dress from Logan. The echo lingered over Idira for a heartbeat, examining her, then with a soft smile, she dematerialised and sank into the floor.

Idira's thoughts careened to a halt. Her echo was not a perfect copy. The other woman's eyes had been a brilliant icy blue, not violet. Idira fled to the library, calling out to the books. They clustered around her, frightened, agitated, sensing the subtle change in the fortress, the arrival of another, concealed within its foundations, and the font's malevolent energy, fed for the first time in tens of thousands of years, rippling outwards, disrupting the magical balance.

"Bring me everything you have on the font and the Nether," she cried out, urgent. "Leave nothing behind. Hurry, before it is too late."

* * *

Late that evening, Idira closed the last book and rubbed her eyes. Now she understood what The Echo had meant when he said they needed to use the font and not her Light to create her echo; what he meant about potentialities, second chances. _There are other variables that would have to come into play,_ he'd said, _but this way, they are at least possible. It would be up to Khadgar to decide if he wishes to avail himself of them or not_ .

She scoffed, Khadgar would never avail of said option. Never. To merge her soul with her echo, Khadgar would have to sacrifice a living person to the font, which would kill them, just as it had done to The Echo, taking their soul in exchange for pulling hers back from the Nether. She shuddered, forcing the thought from her mind. Trailing her fingers over the book's silver clasps, she went over what she now knew about the Nether: unless a soul was protected by incomprehensible powers—that of a Titan or a Creator—a soul did not last long, days at most, before it lost all awareness and was broken down, returned to the energy of the Nether. Then came the long wait to be reborn, perhaps on the same world they'd left, perhaps in another universe in an entirely different reality, but always without any memory of the lives they had previously lived. She had come to realise The Echo's situation in the Nether had been quite singular; a terrifying, brutal punishment. He must have known there were no others like him, suffering an eternal imprisonment, ready and willing to be extinguished so someone they had never heard of could have a second chance. And that was why he didn't want to create her echo from the Light. The font accepted victims, the Light only accepted volunteers. But who would volunteer for her? No one. The Echo had shown his true nature, his coldness, his detachment, his lack of humanity. Perhaps _he_ might be capable of such a heinous thing, but not Khadgar.

She leaned back in the chair, trying to look at the situation in a positive light. The Echo had found peace and left a near-perfect echo of herself for Khadgar, which was as much of an insurance against his despair as she could hope for. If her echo was as complete as Khadgar's echo had been, her echo's presence might comfort him just enough to keep him from the end The Echo had predicted. She shivered, not from cold, but from dread, fearing it might not be enough, watching as the books lifted away from the table, returning to their places, quiet, subdued. They knew the truth, they knew she was going to leave, she could sense their sadness as they'd clustered around her, forlorn, butting up against her hand, seeking her touch against their spines, covers and pages.

She conjured a cup of wine and sipped. One night. She had one night left before her destiny would be fulfilled and Khadgar would be left alone to face his loss. She heard the sound of a teleport opening at the far end of the library. She closed her eyes, enduring the brutal ache of grief in her heart at the sound of his footsteps approaching, steady and purposeful, his scent preceding him, suffusing her with longing. She bit her lip, fighting back the tears threatening to fill her eyes. No. She would not ruin their last night. Tonight she would hide her pain, and be his companion, lover, friend. Tomorrow she could grieve. But tonight, there would only be these last moments, ones she would not mar with mourning.

He neared. From behind, the rustle of a paper bag being set on the table. His hand on her jaw. His lips touching hers. His smile, the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkling. He turned and opened the paper bag, presenting her with her favourite, smoked whitefish salmon and wild mustard on rye. He took out his own sandwich, then reached in to pull out a small white cardboard box, tied with gold ribbon, bearing the gold-gilt logo of the luxury bakery Dalurée. She leaned forward, curious. He slid the box behind him as he pulled himself up to sit on the edge of the table, hiding it from her sight.

"For later," he whispered, giving her a quiet look of affection. He looked tired as he leaned over and kissed her brow. "I have been worried about you today," he said, conjuring a glass decanter half-filled with ruby-red wine, followed by two crystal goblets. "Are you feeling any better?" he asked, waiting for her answer, eyeing her. Unable to trust her voice, she nodded, watching as he turned to pour a little wine into her goblet.

She took it from him and tasted it, her eyebrows lifting, impressed. It was the most complex, full-bodied red she had ever tried; new, exotic flavours rolled over her tongue, shifting, changing, melding. She glanced up at him, curious, as she held out her glass for more.

"From the time of Suramar's height, before its corruption," he said as he poured, leaning his elbow on his thigh as he bent toward her, "an adventurer found a cache of bottles stashed away deep in the ruins of Falanaar. Utterly undrinkable, but several of the rebel Nightborne vintners were able to piece together the genus of the grape, a magic-imbued one, long extinct. They were so excited by the find I asked one of the stewards in the Council's wine cellar to commission an admirable reconstruction." He sipped. "Hm. Quite extraordinary," he said, smacking his lips appreciatively, "to taste a vintage ten thousand years old, what an indulgence." He held up the glass and swirled the liquid, watching it catch the sparks of the tower's arcane blooms in its peaks and troughs. He turned to his wrapped sandwich. "What have you been up to today?" he asked as he bit into his braised-steak baguette, glistening lengths of caramelised onions bulging, golden, out its sides.

"Just catching up on what I haven't read," Idira answered, vague, turning her attention to her sandwich, avoiding his gaze.

"Hmm," Khadgar answered, eyeing the books, hugging themselves together on the shelves, as though seeking comfort from each other. "It's very quiet in here tonight. Almost funereal. Has something happened today?"

"Ah," Idira glanced over her shoulder in the direction of the corridor. "It's been like this all day. It might have something to do with what happened while we were in the font this morning. The books have been a little skittish since then."

Khadgar nodded, following her gaze, taking a sip of his wine. "Could be. I'll double check the wards, I admit I wasn't thinking straight when I closed up the room."

"Ah," Idira stammered, her cheeks warming, "about that, I think you will find them in a bit of a mess, I added quite a few more wards of my own."

"It's alright," Khadgar said, gentle. "I can understand your uneasiness. I'll take a look later."

From the corner of her eye, Idira watched Khadgar as he ate, tucking into the fat baguette, the bottom half still wrapped in its paper; he took big bites, utterly unselfconscious, wiping crumbs away from his mouth with the back of his hand as he stared down at the floor deep in thought, a line of worry furrowing into his brow. He glanced up at her so abruptly she started in surprise.

"I apologise," he said, sweeping baguette crumbs from his lap. "There is much on my mind tonight. Unfortunately, a multitude of last minute changes had to be made to the plans for tomorrow's assault."

Idira hurried to swallow her bite. "Assault?" she asked, surprised. "I thought there was only going to be a small party."

"Yes," Khadgar nodded, peeling back the paper surrounding the bottom of the baguette. "But we needed to create a diversion, to give us the best possible advantage."

"Oh?" Idira asked, impressed. "So who is standing with you, the Horde or the Alliance?"

"Both," Khadgar answered around a fat mouthful of steak and onion. He flashed up his index finger, acknowledging her surprise, indicating he had more to say. He swallowed. "Once the Lady Tyrande was taken, King Anduin and the Warchief Sylvanas came to see the advantage of working together. Of course, finding out Gul'dan is close to completing the transformation of the Betrayer into Sargeras's avatar has helped to give the factions' leaders some much needed perspective."

"I'll bet," Idira muttered, thinking of the petty fights she had witnessed in the mess hall the morning after the Battle for the Broken Shore. She poked at a stray piece of the smoked salmon, pushing it back in between the slices of rye. "That's the second time you have mentioned the Lady Tyrande's abduction. I admit I am curious as to what happened to her."

A look of discomfort slashed across Khadgar's face. "Yes, that," he said, shaking his head, resigned. "A nasty, nasty business. Poor woman. I fear Malfurion is near to losing his senses over this."

Idira blinked, taken aback by his words, her mind irresistibly drawn to making an unpleasant comparison. She hoped her thoughts were not showing on her face. Khadgar however, appeared to be oblivious to her turmoil. He finished his sandwich and picked up his wine. "It's a long story," he said, eyeing her. "Are you certain you want to hear it?"

Idira nodded. "I do," she answered, thinking of the future she had seen, of the ruined body of Tyrande, turned into the avatar of the Titan Sargeras instead of the Betrayer as everyone seemed to expect. A part of her had begun to nurture a wild hope she had only seen one possible outcome—the worst one—her true destiny distorted by both the font and the inherent evil saturating the Tomb of Sargeras.

"Very well," Khadgar said, conjuring a chair. He sat down facing her, his knees touching hers, his sudden contact intimate in its thoughtlessness; his fingers working at the buckles of the leather straps on his shoulder collar. He shrugged it off and dropped it onto the floor, the collar's heavy weight hitting the stone flags with a dull thud.

Idira glanced down at his collar, lying in a heap, one of his habits, this undressing and letting things fall where they may, unexpected in a man who had to maintain so much control over almost everything else. She wondered what other habits he had, then suffered a paralysing stab of regret, since she would never have the chance to find out.

He leaned back, cradling the wine in his hand as he rolled his shoulders, easing the tension in them, distracting her from her thoughts as he strained the material of his tunic in a most pleasant way.

"Thirteen days ago," he said, taking a sip of his wine, "Tyrande came to me, riding her sabre cat right into the Council's Chambers." He chuckled. "That didn't annoy Modera _at all._ She must have ranted about Tyrande's disrespect for at least an hour after that." He sipped at his wine again, making a quiet sound of appreciation. "Anyway," he said, his expression turning serious, "Tyrande had come to tell me she had learned that Illidan the Betrayer was not as dead as we had all believed, his soul still remained fully conscious in the Nether but was being torn away from him piece by piece via a portal into the Chamber of the Eye, where Gul'dan was corrupting it and returning it to the body of the Betrayer, in readiness for the Titan's use."

Idira took a sip of wine as she digested Khadgar's words, glad all of a sudden to have spent so much time reading about the Nether. "But Illidan has been dead for a long time," she said, tilting her glass in her hand, watching the wine slide, smooth along the inside of the crystal glass. "Surely his soul would have been broken down by now. What if it was a trick, a lie of Gul'dan's to catch Tyrande instead?"

"I suspected the same, but unfortunately it was no lie. Malfurion was able to see into the Chamber of the Eye when Tyrande was abducted. Illidan's body was there, being transformed right before Malfurion's eyes." Khadgar rubbed his hand over his thigh, making the nap of his leather breeches move back and forth. "Before Karazhan was lost, I read a book—I regret I was not able to save it—but I recall reading that those who commit the greatest crimes will remain intact and conscious, forced to live with the memory of what they have done until they have atoned for their wrongs. It is rare, very rare, but I am guessing in Illidan's case, it might explain his continued existence in the Nether after such a long interval of time."

"How terribly convenient for Gul'dan," Idira said with a quiet scoff.

"Indeed," Khadgar nodded, then continued, "but Tyrande did not only come to me to tell me of this disturbing news, she also wanted me to arrange for her to speak with another—the last Na'aru, Xe'ra, whom she believed would know of a way into the Nether while one is still alive—her intention to join Illidan in spirit form so she might use the Light of Elune to protect him, or at least try to slow down Gul'dan's predations."

"I take it she found a way in," Idira said, dry. "Hence Gul'dan's sudden interest in her."

"She did," Khadgar sighed and looked down into his wine. "Not long after, Gul'dan took her unconscious body from the Barrow Dens in Moonglade, right out from under Malfurion's nose through a portal into the Chamber of the Eye. Soon after learning of these developments I used the font and went to The Tomb of Sargeras, first of all to find a way in—the tunnel, where you read the wards—and then to see for myself what was transpiring within the Chamber itself. Tyrande was there, held in the grip of the Betrayer by the nascent power of the avatar, for what purpose I cannot imagine, but it looked for all the world like the thing was worshipping her, intending her for his consort." He stopped and shook his head, his expression darkening. "But what Gul'dan was doing to feed the tethers needed to pull the pieces of Illidan's soul from the Nether . . . horrible things. Horrifying. I still have nightmares. Little Nightborne children, stolen from Suramar, still holding their stuffed murloc toys, grimy with filth; clutching them against their little chests, their eyes wide with terror as that monster robbed them of their souls. Their screams . . . " He brushed his knuckle against the corner of his eye and took a self-conscious sip of wine. "And I could do nothing but watch." Blinking back her own tears, Idira reached out and pressed her hand against his knee, his own coming to cover hers, squeezing it.

He took another quick gulp of wine and cleared his throat. "Not long after I returned from the font, you turned up, and here we are."

"Here we are," Idira repeated back, soft, her heart aching, sensing his conflict: wanting to make things right, yet being forced to wait while innocent children succumbed to total annihilation. "It will be over soon my love," she said, knowing the bitter truth. "Gul'dan will be stopped. You will not fail."

Khadgar set his glass onto the table, pinching the goblet's stem between his thumb and forefinger. He turned the glass round and round, the wine's dregs sloshing up the sides as he retreated once more into his thoughts. "I hope so," he murmured. "With all my heart, I hope so."

Idira let him brood for awhile, falling inevitably into her own troubled musings. After a time, Khadgar roused, and poured them both more wine. They drank, quiet, their eyes meeting now and again, touching, then parting, to return their thoughts.

"Ah I am bad company this night," he sighed as he swallowed the last of his wine. He set aside his empty glass and reached for the white box, pulling it across the table. He held it out to her.

"For you," he said, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Intrigued, she pulled apart the golden ribbon and lifted open the lid. Inside, perched on a thick piece of golden card, a tall, circular chocolate confection awaited, its top slick with hardened icing, a tiny golden physalis perched on top, its papery pod artfully opened.

"It's called a chocolate fondant," he said, taking the box back from her and conjuring a dainty porcelain plate and silver spoon. Lifting the cake out of the box by the card, he set it on the plate and handed it back to her. "Try it."

She didn't need any encouragement, her mouth watering, she broke her spoon through the cake's icing, pushing through the confection's silky softness, crying out with delight when she discovered a puddle of liquid chocolate in its centre.

She held up her spoon, laden with chocolate cake, icing and sauce, offering him the first taste. He shook his head.

"No, you have a lot of chocolate to eat to catch up to me," he said, the corner of his lip quirking into a half-smile when she couldn't hide her relief at his refusal. "Enjoy it. It's more fun for me to watch, anyway."

She ate the cake, lost in bliss, its chocolate even better than the croissants'. It was all over too quickly. Khadgar took away her plate and kissed her, gentle, tasting the chocolate lingering on her lips before pulling back to conjure his incredible coffee. As she sipped, savouring the moment, he leaned forward and took her hand.

"When we have finished with our task tomorrow," he said, twining his fingers together with hers, "I would like to bring you back to Dalaran with me, to live in my residence. Or, if you'd rather," he hastened to add, looking a little sheepish when she started, misunderstanding her reaction, "we can find you an accommodation of your own. Whatever you prefer."

Stricken anew by is ill-timed request, she visualised all the things she would never have: mornings together waking tangled in his arms, late nights spent drinking wine and talking, him dropping his clothing into heaps as he undressed. The love they would never make, the kisses they would never share, the balcony she would never stand on with him again, the journeys they would never take, the enemies they would never face, the trials they would never endure, the arguments they would never have. The path neither of them would ever know.

"Idira?" he broached, quiet, his brow creasing with worry.

"Yes," she cried out, abrupt, throwing herself into his arms, clinging to him, sobbing, riven with sorrow and regret, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, soaking the expensive woollen material with her tears, feeling his embrace tightening around her as he lifted her up and took her to the bedroom.

"I will make you happy," he promised, fierce, as he kicked the door open to the bedroom and shouldered his way inside, cradling her against him. "I swear it." He settled her on the bed, his eyes raking over her, unveiled, exposing his heart to her, vulnerable, letting her realise the depth of his love. "Finally," he breathed, "Azeroth has granted me my heart's desire."

She cried out at that, anguished, though in the heat of his own blinkered joy, he misunderstood her reaction. Kissing her tears away, he promised she would never suffer again, would never again be outcast, alone, alienated; driving spears of sorrow into her heart with each whispered vow, grieving at his belief in a future she knew they would never have, leaving her languishing alone in her torment as he loved her, whispering words so tender, she wept anew.

Much later, he slept, holding her against him, his warmth staving off the worst of her cold. She watched him sleep, memorising the planes of his cheeks, the cut of his jaw, the furrows in his brow, the reckless fall of his silver hair; wiping away her tears before they fell against his chest; her heart bruised and sore, cursing the day she was born.

The hours dwindled. Soon it would be morning. Her last day. Soon she would die, so others could live. It had been her fate, it had always been her fate, there would be no fairytale ending for her.

Despite her fighting it, her body succumbed to its fatigue and she slept. She dreamed of nothing, until a voice came to her from within the unutterable depths of her inner darkness; clarion and clear, reeking of eternity.

 _Daughter, you are not forsaken. You are not alone. There is another. They are waiting._

Idira woke with start, hurtling back to consciousness as though struck by an internal blow. The cryptic words made no sense. Who was waiting? Logan? Was Logan who she was meant to be with after all? Was she and he to be reborn soon after, given another chance? She shook her head, a fresh wave of grief assailing her. She didn't want to be with Logan, she wanted to be here, now, with Khadgar. Within the tangle of blankets, she turned, emptiness consuming her, longing to feel Khadgar's arms around her, but his side of the bed was abandoned, his pile of clothes collected; in front of the marble fireplace the glow of his teleport glimmered, faint. She was too late, he was already gone.

On the bedside table, evidence of his recent presence: a bouquet of wildflowers, another box from Dalurée, half-opened for her, exposing an artful selection of chocolate truffles nestled on a bed of golden tissue, a mug of coffee, long cold.

Naked, she got up and looked at her old dress from Logan hanging over the folding screen. No, she didn't want to wear that dress anymore. A plain black dress materialised over her body instead. She went to the door and looked back at Khadgar's parting gift, her throat tight, she turned away and went to the library, leaving the coffee and chocolates behind.


	22. Chapter 20

**CHAPTER 20**

* * *

The library's silence oppressed Idira. Even the tower's latent arcane bursts and her tendrils of Light had faded to a muted quiescence, barely glimmering. The books stood silent and still on their shelves, not one of them came to her to greet her. She touched the spines of the ones nearest her. They huddled together, desolation and misery emanating from them. Unwilling to make them suffer, she left, knowing her presence only reminded them she would soon be gone, never to return.

Within the solitude of Medivh's office, Idira cast a spell, bringing forth a crackling fire into the long-dormant fireplace. She held out her hands, warming them, thinking of nothing, watching the orange flames caress the logs, moving over the wood's rough surfaces; the lick of flames mesmerising, reminding her of the sultry touch of a lover, even as the flames blackened and consumed the logs' bark. She rubbed her hands together, savouring the prickle of heat, the itch of warmth on her skin.

Her thoughts turned inward, drifting back to the hungry, rough days of her childhood, living on the farm with her father and Myra, eking out an existence in their dilapidated shack on the coast of Westfall; the day her father came back from the riot in Stormwind, bloodied and sour. His promotion and her sudden, luxurious life in Moonbrook, cocooned within VanCleef's bizarre, criminal world. Poverty coming again as her father's forces overran Westfall, the nightmare of her long, dark incarceration on The Night's Cutlass; the return back to the farm on the coast. Thirteen quiet years of relative peace until the Legion arrived; Stormwind's Pig and Whistle tavern, Dalaran's Academy, the Archives and then finally, Khadgar's sanctuary, sealed outside of space and time. She brushed at a whisper of ash, absently smearing its chalky white residue across the black wool of her dress, thinking of Logan's letter, left behind along with her things in her dorm room, wondering what had happened to her belongings. She scoffed. Knowing the way the Academy was run, they had probably sent one of the mute servants to clear it out, her scant belongings packed into a box and buried in some vault akin to the archives; a pompous title sprawling in gilt letters across its door. _Lost and Found. No Goblins Past This Point. etc_. _etc._ She scoffed again, turning to warm her back against the heat of the fire. What did it matter now? No one would ever claim her things. They would remain there for years, perhaps forever, Logan's letter with it, forgotten, just like her.

Morose, her thoughts drifted to those who had shaped her life, protected her, befriended her: Lanira, VanCleef, Benny, Kip, Arinna, the Lady Nin, Bishop Mattias, Logan, Ryback, Vanessa, Wynn, Duncan, Margle and Unambi. She bit her lip as she dwelled on her memories of her lost protector. What would he think of her here in this place, of the terrible spectre of her destiny awaiting her, only hours away? What would he say to her if he was still alive? She pressed her hands against her face, stifling a sob, her heart torn by longing to have his reassuring presence near her and missing him more than she had ever done before. He would know how to comfort her, would know exactly the right words to say to help her face her destiny with courage.

Sinking to her knees before the fire, she closed her eyes, trying to imagine what he would say, hearing his voice as clearly as though he were there in the room with her.

 _Ya be real special, Idira. Ya been chosen ta save da lives o' millions an' ya be savin' da life o' da man ya love. Dat be da best love dere is._

A tear slipped free, rolling down the side of her nose. The memory of Unambi's sacrifice coming back, bright, vivid, his body torn apart by a horde of demons so she could live to face this day. Wiping her tear away, she drew a shuddering breath. His death would not be in vain. She would face her end with honour, would accept her destiny and make Unambi proud. She went to Medivh's desk, rummaging through the drawers until she found a sheet of paper and a quill pen. The jar of ink had long since dried out. She conjured more.

Settling into place, she stared at the empty page, considering her words, the last ones Khadgar would have from her, words intended to reassure him, to ease his pain, to let him know she had accepted her fate and her love for him would go on until the end of time. Dipping the stylus into the ink, she took a deep breath and began.

A short while later, she sat back, waiting for the ink to dry, rereading her words, satisfied she had said all she wanted to say. Another rummage in the desk uncovered a small wooden box containing a fat stick of red wax along with an array of seals. She took up the wax and left the seals in the box, conjuring her own, the sign of infinity, a closed double loop, laying on its side. Pressing its impression against the blob of melted wax, she sealed the letter closed.

She wandered back to the bedroom, wondering where to leave it. Nowhere he might see it before the event. It would have to be concealed. She went to the bed and lifted up his pillow, sliding the letter underneath. Trailing her fingers over his pillow, she considered whether she ought to pen letters to Vanessa and Wynn as well: to let them know of her fate and make her farewells. It would be an easy enough task to teleport them into a mailbox. She hurried back down the corridor, she should have just enough time. She stopped, imagining them opening her letters, their stricken expressions. No. How awful it would be for them to have to learn of her death from a cold letter, to never be able to speak to her, to ask her the questions she knew would be burning within their hearts for the rest of their lives. It was kinder, better for them to believe she had been sent away from Dalaran in disgrace, banished, left to fend for herself in some far-flung corner of Azeroth, with them living in the hope they might meet her again one day.

She returned to Medivh's office, and passed the time sitting before the fire reading a beautiful leather-bound tome she had discovered during her last visit, one she had intended to read later: a book of fairytales from the races of the Horde, stories she had never seen or heard of before. Half-way through, she paused between stories, discovering an inscription, written in flowing script on the frontispiece:

 _My love, do not forget me. I shall never forget you. Yours, forever. G._

Idira trailed her fingers over the faded ink. Sensing the latent touch of Azeroth's once-Guardian still clinging to the letters. How often had he caressed Garona's words, Idira wondered, thinking of her own letter, left for Khadgar. Words he would touch in an attempt to bring her back to him.

She pushed her melancholy thoughts aside, considering how many others had achieved their heart's desire. She thought of Myra and Benny and of VanCleef, none of them had been able to have the life they longed for, all of them dying brutal deaths, their hearts broken. And Logan? He had spent his years of manhood longing for a woman he could never have. Even Unambi. She had suspected there might have been someone for him, too. Someone VanCleef had taken him from by capturing him, separating them forever. During the darkest period of their time on The Night's Cutlass, Unambi had confirmed her suspicions. He had wondered about the woman he had intended to bind with, if she was well, who she had bound with, did she have little ones. His words had sounded innocuous enough, but the look in his eye betrayed the truth. He had loved her, and he missed her. His loss so palpable, even as a young woman, raw and inexperienced, Idira could sense his pain. Yet he had given it all up to take care of her, to protect her, to make sure she would be able to do whatever it was her Light intended her to do.

Bolstered by thoughts of him, of his connection to her path and her purpose, she continued to think of him, reliving her memories: watching him out the kitchen window of the farm while he worked in his garden, singing to the plants as he tended them; him running down the hall of VanCleef's house, carrying her and Blackie to safety the morning Papa had bombed the house; the night he spent saving her books from the storm damage; the day he rowed them out of the claustrophobic dark cavern, back out into the sunlight; his blade saving her from Papa's knife; then, surrounded by demons, his final sacrifice, triggering her Light.

A thought struck her hard. She sat up, slow. _He knew._ He knew she carried the Light of Azeroth, it was why he had stayed with her, even when VanCleef had offered him his freedom. Right from the very first time, when her Light had protected her in Klaven's Tower, he had recognised it, yet he had never told anyone, not even her, until the very end, when she was so terrified, so overwhelmed by the events surrounding her she had not comprehended his words. It had taken her almost four months to piece it together. She closed her eyes hearing his voice again: _Da Light got a plan, and it be a good one, ya got ta trust dat Light. Ya real special, Idira, don' ya be forgettin' dat._

She looked back down at the book in her lap, her fingers still touching the faded inscription. She had not been alone with her Light after all. Unambi had known, and even if he was gone, she sensed he was still with her somehow; his memory surrounding her, comforting her, protecting her, guiding her, showing her the way. Today she would die and go to the Light, just like those before her, yet unlike many of them, she had been able to know true love. It was enough. It would have to be enough.

* * *

Khadgar arrived several hours later. She woke to his touch, the fire reduced to a smoulder, her body caught in the thrall of her innate chill. She sat up, the fairytale book slipping from her numb fingers, toppling onto the floor. Khadgar reached down and picked it up, glancing at the title.

"These are very sad stories," he said, murmuring a spell, rekindling the fire. "The Horde races prefer tragic endings to their fairytales, believing a difficult ending reflects life more accurately than the happy endings of the Alliance versions."

"Perhaps the Horde are wiser than we," Idira remarked, rising to her feet, letting him wrap his arms around her, enclosing her against his warmth. "Their children will not grow up to be disappointed, as I am sure many of the Alliance's have."

Khadgar made a non-committal sound, as he leaned over and set the book onto the side table, still holding her in his arms. "I read these stories when I was Medivh's apprentice—the whole book in one sitting—hoping each new tale would come to a better end. Not one of them does." He caught her chin in his fingers, tilting her face up to his. "Call me a romantic, but I like to believe in happy endings. I must, for why else do we fight?"

Idira blinked, unable to find an adequate response to his question. He kissed her brow, undisturbed by her silence, seeming to accept it as evidence of her concurrence.

"We have just a few minutes before I must take you to meet with the others," he said, "if there is anything you would like to have portalled to my residence I can send it over now."

Idira looked down and shook her head. "No, there is nothing," she whispered.

"Not even one or two books?" Khadgar suggested, hopeful. "I am sure none of them would mind leaving the fortress to stay with you."

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she shook her head again, unable to answer.

"Ah, well, perhaps this isn't the time," he said, gentle. "I imagine you have other things on your mind at the moment, hmm?"

She looked up at him and nodded, envying him his ignorance. He let go of her. She sank back down onto the chair. "Are you hungry?" he asked. "I could conjure some food if you like."

"No. Thank you," Idira said, letting her gaze drift over him, memorising him. She bit her lip, her heart aching, unable to stop herself from thinking of what was to come.

"It will be alright," he said, keeping his eyes on hers. "I will be beside you the whole time. Kalec and Xe'ra will be there as well, along with the Archdruid Malfurion. We will be in and out, quick. No harm will come to you, I swear it."

She stood up, abrupt, agitated, dismayed by his words, knowing he would soon curse himself for ever having said them. "I should get ready," she said turning away so he wouldn't be able to see her face, the tears glinting in her eyes.

"Of course," he said, moving to the door, "shall I will wait for you in the library?"

"No," Idira said, dull, thinking of the grieving books, "not the library."

He came back to her and took her by her shoulders, turning her around. "What is it?" he demanded, his eyes searching hers. "A blind man could see something is troubling you."

For several heart-stopping moments, she thought he could read her mind, his gaze so piercing, so filled with sadness, she couldn't answer. He pulled her into his arms, holding her fast against him.

"Is it what grieved you yesterday?" he asked, soft.

She wouldn't lie to him. Her face buried against his chest, she nodded, blinking back her tears. He waited for her to say more, but she kept quiet.

"It will be alright," he sighed, finally, "whatever it is. It will pass." His arms tightened around her, reassuring.

Her ear pressed against his chest, she listened to his heartbeat, savouring its steady, strong cadence. "I love you," she whispered into his tunic. "I have always loved you."

Khadgar's heart sped up, just a touch. She pulled from his embrace. "Do you remember me?" she asked.

His brow creased. "Remember you?" he repeated, puzzled.

"One night in Shattrath, when you were walking and looking at the stars, you saw me." When he continued to look perplexed, she said, "You were asking the sky about my Light. I was dreaming and saw you first. Somehow you also saw me. You said: 'A child. It cannot be'. Once you recovered, you asked me about Gul'dan. I tried to talk to you but you couldn't hear me."

He blinked, taken aback, his gaze turning inward as he searched his memories. "Shattrath?" he mused, his brow furrowing. "That was a long time ago, much has happened since then. It would be difficult—" he stopped, staring at her, recognition flickering; suddenly seeing her with new eyes. "You?!" he breathed. "You were the child, obscured by the violet Light?" he shook his head, slow, incredulous. "Of course. Yes. It all makes sense now. How could I not have remembered that the moment I saw your eyes? For weeks, your Light had been coming to my dreams, warning me about Gul'dan, which I couldn't understand since in Outland he was already long dead. After I saw you, the dreams stopped, and I confess I forgot about the whole thing when nothing more happened. Yet years later, here we are, facing Gul'dan. It is as though your Light had planned this all along. How fascinating." He took her hands in his, running his thumbs over the backs of her knuckles. "It is as though our destinies were already entwined, even then."

"Hmmm," Idira said, not wanting to encourage him. She decided to steer the conversation to safer waters. "I also saw you once in Stormwind, just over three months ago. At the flower seller's cart."

"You did?" he asked, glancing at her in surprise. "But surely I would have remembered you—your eyes."

"I didn't let you see my eyes," she answered, quiet. "I stumbled. You caught me."

"Well at least I did one thing right," he smiled, his expression softening. "How different things would have been had I seen your eyes, we could have had—"

"Who were you buying flowers for?" Idira interrupted, desperate to stop him from reminding her of their missed opportunity.

"What's that?" he asked, startled by her non-sequitur.

"The flower seller," Idira persisted, dogged, "she asked if you wanted the usual or something new."

"Ah," he smiled, "is it not enough you have read my journal, now you must know all my secrets?"

"You don't have to tell me if you'd rather not," Idira said, and meant it.

"They were for a memorial," he said, relenting, his lips quirking, "for a young woman I once met, a long, long time ago before Stormwind was sacked by the orcs. We crossed paths at the Stormwind Palace when I was a youth. She showed me kindness while I was still an awkward Kirin Tor apprentice, helping me to find the books I needed in the Royal Library. Since we never introduced ourselves, it was only afterwards I found out who she really was."

"Oh. A memorial?" Idira asked, intrigued. "She doesn't have a grave?"

"No. She died in the attack by Deathwing. Incinerated. An instantaneous death. She died getting a group of orphans to safety. Just think of it, the niece of one of Stormwind's previous Queens, sacrificing her life for those with nothing. She could certainly teach the Kirin Tor a thing or two about compassion." He fell into his thoughts, ruminating for several moments. He looked up, abrupt. "Perhaps you might have heard of her. The Lady Nin."

Idira's body tingled. Pieces clicked, falling together. Another from her past, sacrificing their life for others. A pattern. Over and over, surrounding her, repeating. A message, written in the destinies of others. She blinked back a fresh onslaught of tears. "I have heard of her," she whispered, sensing a blanket of peace settling over her, a oneness with her fate. "In fact it was her memorial I was on my way to visit."

"Oh?" he said, his brow creasing, "I didn't see you there."

"Something else came up and I wasn't able to go," she said, soft, thinking how he had been the one to unlock her memories, the brutal truth of what the Legion had cost her, devastating her, paralysing her with grief.

"It's a very fine memorial," he said, picking up the poker and stirring the fire. "The House of Nobles commissioned a marble statue of her surrounded by children holding hands, dancing in a circle around her. She is smiling down at them, completely serene. It's quite beautifully done. When things are calmer, I will take you to see it if you like."

Idira imagined the memorial, her heart clenching. "I would like that very much," she said, grateful to have learned the truth behind Nin's demise. She brushed away a tear, her emotions taking hold of her, though her feelings were not of grief, but of resolve. Logan. Lady Nin. Benny. Unambi. They had died with courage. With purpose. With love in their hearts.

"Better now?" Khadgar asked, after a long quiet.

She looked into his eyes as her Light clothed her in her regalia. "Better," she answered, shivering, enduring the icy pain of a layer of frost creeping over her skin, sparkling in the firelight. She held out her hand. Her staff materialised. "Let us finish this."

* * *

Khadgar cast a teleport. Dalaran, a sumptuous room. Straight ahead, a beautiful being made of the purest light floated in the air. Idira caught her breath. The Na'aru Xe'ra. Her head and torso were formless, featureless, nothing more than dense clusters of pure white light. Above her light-driven core, an elaborate crystal filigree of a crown hovered. Around her torso, the Na'aru's crystal wings rotated, fragile and thin. Her light pulsed, soft, emanating from her, filled with soft chimes resonating with quiet, ancient power.

Idira stepped through the teleport's residue. Two others waited with the Na'aru. The Archmage Kalec, and another, the Archdruid Malfurion, she presumed. She glanced at him, then away. She had read once about him, how he had become so attuned to the power of nature, he had begun to manifest the aspects of the druid in bodily form: the wings of a stormcrow, the paws of a bear, the feet of a cat, the antlers of a stag. He eyed her, a towering being, far taller than even Khadgar, a look of approval in his eye.

Khadgar nodded at the group. "Idira Northshire, may I present the Archmage Kalec, the Archdruid Malfurion and the Na'aru Xe'ra."

Kalec tilted his head to her, an unreadable look in his eye as he glanced at Khadgar, stepping closer to her, protective.

Malfurion bowed low. "My Lady," he said, in a warm voice, seasoned with age and wisdom.

Xe'ra's wing spun faster, her light brightening. Soft chimes tinkled as the Na'aru's gentle voice pierced Idira's mind. _And so the reckoning is come._

Khadgar blinked, taken aback, paling. He eyed the Na'aru, waiting, as though expecting her to say more. When she remained silent, he looked at Idira, uncertain. She met his look, steady. He swallowed, his jaw tensing, a touch of dread passing behind his eyes. A slight shake of his head. His thoughts coming to her, using the spell from the font. _Don't do it, whatever it is._

She didn't have time to answer. Kalec cleared his throat. Khadgar turned, his demeanour shifting imperceptibly, once more commanding, the Leader of the Kirin Tor.

"Xe'ra and Idira are the most powerful among us," Khadgar said, crisp, meeting the eyes of the other men,"they will deal with freeing Illidan and Tyrande. Our task will be to occupy Gul'dan until we can get away. It is not our prerogative to defeat him today, our only objective is to get the others away. Kalec you will portal us back to this room. It has been warded in preparation for their arrival. Are we agreed?"

The men nodded, murmuring their assent. Khadgar nodded at Idira, a sharp look of warning sparking in his eyes, reminding her of his earlier words. "Then let us begin, and may the Light protect us. Idira, if you would teleport us to Hope's End."

Idira visualised the cavern with the ancient Elven temple ruins. Her Light thrummed, responding to her call as she swept her staff up and brought it down, sharp against the tiled floor. Kalec and Malfurion turned, defensive, eyeing the dripping, dank cavern, the broken ruins of the ancient temple.

Against the solid face of the stone wall, the residue of the tunnel's opening beckoned to her. She went to it, pressing her hands against the damp rock face, frost streaking away from her palms as she worked to sense the current pattern. There. The fifth pattern. Calling to her Light she uttered the dark incantations, all seven, in the correct order.

Demonic runes flared alight on the smooth surface of the stone wall, outlining the tunnel's opening. The stone vanished, opening the way into a dim tunnel, glowing with the faint light of fel. Idira touched the nearest rune. Frost crackled away from her fingers, spreading around the opening's edges, freezing the runes, holding the way open for the others.

Her Light prodding her, urging her on, she stepped, unthinking, into the dripping, fel-infused tunnel, its depths reeking of evil, misery and death. She descended the stone steps into the tunnel's bowels, the light surrounding her staff flaring, a star in the darkness. At the bottom of the steps, she looked back. Khadgar followed close behind, his staff alight, pulsing with latent power, responding to the tunnel's fel taint. Kalec and Malfurion came after, cautious, wary, Xe'ra drifting in their wake, her light sliding over the fouled rock, cleansing the fel. Khadgar touched her arm as he passed her, taking the lead. _Stay back, it's dangerous,_ he fell back, grateful to have his powerful bulk between her and the dark Citadel, sensing the bleakness within its grim walls, the despair, the desolation. The last place on Azeroth she would ever see.

The tunnel descended deep underground, before finally flattening out. The walls sweated, the tunnel's stale moisture forming into black puddles limned by the malevolent glow of the fel torches. The weight of the sea bore down on them, and despite her having left the tunnel open in the cavern, the air was rank, stale, nearly unbreathable. She heard one of the men behind her shudder, claustrophobic, as the tunnel began its slow incline. Several long minutes passed before they reached the base of another flight of slick stone steps, grimy with damp. At the top, Khadgar stopped, reaching a dead end; a wall of solid stone blocking the way into the foundation of the Tomb of Sargeras and the Chamber of the Eye.

She stepped forward, brushing past Khadgar, sensing him edging closer to her, looking over his shoulder, wary, watching for danger as she read the wards, sensed the weaves, murmured the dark incantations, unlocking the runes, silent, stealthy, alerting no one of their presence. The wall shimmered, the way opening. Khadgar muttered a low spell, cloaking them in invisibility, even the glimmering Na'aru. She touched the nearest rune on the wall, frost spreading from her fingers, encasing the edges of the opening in ice, holding the way open.

Khadgar took the lead, his form only visible by its faint blue outline. He moved out into a wide corridor, its ceiling high, hidden in shadow. Ahead, the corridor curved away, a slow descent, foreshortening her view. She could hear a man screaming. Her flesh crawled as his brutal cries raked through her, his agony shearing into her. The cries ebbed, muted by the thick walls of the corridor. Fear slid into her.

She touched Khadgar's arm, holding him back. _Wait._ He turned, preoccupied. _Kiss me._

For a heartbeat she thought he wouldn't _. Please._ He relented. His lips touched hers, tender, his kiss quiet, filled with promise. A sharp inhalation from Malfurion. Patience from Kalec. The screams came again. Khadgar pulled away, abrupt, taking her hand in his, leading them along the corridor. They descended down its long, slow curve, passing numerous openings, lined with glowing runes, moving deep into the living rock, her Light stirring, awakening.

The corridor came to an abrupt end. Ahead, tucked into the inner curve of the corridor, a vast opening, its edges limned with hundreds of fel-tainted runes. They glowed, malevolent, hungry. Her Light shifted, visceral, kindling. Alone, Khadgar edged ahead and looked in. Several long moments passed, slow. Finally, he motioned for them to follow. Idira moved toward the opening, Khadgar's hand caught her arm, pulling her back, firm, putting her behind him.

She edged past him, to see. A large circular Chamber spread away from the opening, its ceiling hidden in deep shadow. Across the middle of the stone floor, a complex circle of runes pulsed with the fetid green of fel. Gul'dan, the orc she had watched obliterate King Varian stood with his back to them, holding his skull-encrusted staff high. Sinuous lengths of fel tethers writhed out of it, plunging into the darkness of a large portal set into the opposite wall, returning soon after clutching a fragment of fel light in their maws. They slammed, vicious, into the ravaged body of a massive being, the one she recognised as the Betrayer, Illidan. He bellowed as his body tore open in a dozen places, his flesh reforming with each brutal attack, morphing piece by piece into a dread lord. His wrists and ankles had been bound by fel tethers, holding him suspended, mid-air, spread-eagled. He strained against them, struggling, desperate to free himself.

Opposite Illidan was another, also held suspended by fel tethers and spread-eagled against the wall. Tyrande. She still looked the same as Idira remembered from the day she had seen her in the Citadel, although unlike Illidan, she did not fight, she hung in her bindings, limp, silent and still. Only her eyes had changed, churning with fel.

Khadgar raised his staff, giving the signal to begin. He brought his staff to the ground, the invisibility spell melting away. A wall of arcane energy burst from his staff and slammed into Gul'dan's back. The orc lurched forward, stumbling, gripping onto his staff, struggling to keep his balance. He turned, his eyes blazing, his fingers moving, rapid, already casting. Khadgar and Kalec threw up their wards, preparing to attack once more, but Malfurion hit him first, silencing him, buying them more time.

"Malfurion."Gul'dan narrowed his eyes at the druid. "You are just in time to see your consort's transformation. She has a new master now. How fitting for you to be her first gift to Sargeras," he smiled, slow, exposing his rotting teeth. Tyrande turned her head and looked at Malfurion, impassive, the fel flames within her eyes igniting, bright and hungry.

"Tyrande, my love," Malfurion said, stepping toward her, his voice aching with remorse, "I am here. You are safe now."

Gul'dan scoffed, casting another spell. Quick as lightning, a barrier snapped up around him, just as the spells of Khadgar and Kalec slammed into it, their arcane power melting, harmless down its sides.

The men's voices rose, sharp, commanding, channelling their power, their eyes hard, focussed, as they cast their spells; the thrum of their combined energy making the room vibrate and hiss. Her Light prodded her, responding, intuiting, showing Idira the way forward, the aid she could give. Even though Gul'dan wasn't attacking, she threw an icy shield over the group. Blue fire exploded from Kalec and Khadgar's hands, sending enormous amounts of arcane power crashing against Gul'dan's barrier. Pieces of masonry tumbled down onto the ice barrier, the Chamber juddering. Gul'dan laughed, full of scorn, their spells sliding away from his shield, useless. He turned his back to them, continuing to send tethers through the impossible portal into the black-dark Nether.

"His barrier is fed by the fel power in this Chamber, our spells will never break through it," Khadgar bellowed, his body quaking with the raw power of the arcane. "Xe'ra, it is time!"

Her wings spinning, Xe'ra slipped through Idira's shield and into the Chamber, her light blinding, reverberating. A powerful beam of light exploded from her core and pulsed through the portal into the Twisting Nether. It returned within a heartbeat carrying what was left of Illidan's ragged spirit, pierced and gouged in a thousand places to Illidan's body, merging them together. She flared again. Three more beams of light shot out, wreathing around Illidan's body, cleansing him, burning the fel tethers from his arms and wrists.

Gul'dan chuckled, amused. "A Na'aru. How desperate you are," he said, his malevolent voice grating, sinister. "But you are too late. Sargeras comes. Even your Na'aru's Light will not stop him."

Freed from his bonds, Illidan rose up, a bizarre creature, half-demon hunter, half-dread lord. He towered over Gul'dan. "No. I will not succumb. I will destroy you first."

Gul'dan lifted his hand, an indifferent gesture. Illidan slammed against the wall.

"Not you, fool. Your will has been . . . troublesome. You have, however, brought me another whose will has been more easily broken." He chuckled once more, pleased, and waved his staff. A vision appeared within the center of the circle of runes. One by one, the men stopped casting, watching, horrified as the vision played out in total silence. Idira watched, confused, as Illidan transformed, turning into a dread lord, his eyes opening, burning with hate, Sargeras's avatar. She glanced back at Khadgar, watching, tense, poised to cast again.

"A small spell," Gul'dan continued, speaking to Illidan. "A token really, but enough of Tyrande's spirit was broken for her to believe the illusion I played for her. Now she sees what I tell her to see. When she saw your transformation, she lost all hope and became—" he turned his hand palm upward and closed his fingers into a fist, "—mine."

Idira cut a look at Tyrande, watching them, expressionless, Malfurion's consort's eyes burned, hateful, cold.

"No," Malfurion whispered, stricken.

Safe within his shield, Gul'dan turned. He lifted his staff. "And now, Illidan," he sneered, triumphant, "prepare to fulfill your new purpose. Between your fel-enhanced spirit and hers, there is more than enough to grant Sargeras his avatar within her. You die. She lives. How romantic." A bolt of fel energy streamed out of his staff linking Tyrande and Illidan together, they rose up into the air, each encased within a fel sphere.

With a cry of despair, Malfurion rushed forward, reckless, leaving the protection of the shield. "No!" he shrieked, casting spells, wild, desperate, trying to break through Gul'dan's barrier. Nothing worked. Every spell he cast slid off the odious thing. He attacked it with his claws, tearing at it, beating at it with his wings.

"Tyrande!" he screamed. "I am here! It is not real, Gul'dan lies!"

"Break the link, if we do not stop this, it will be too late," Khadgar commanded, cold, his eyes hard as steel. Idira called to her Light, adding her own spells to those of Khadgar's and Kalec's, even Xe'ra fired her light, weakening the tether, but as soon as they broke through it, another snaked up from Gul'dan's staff to replace it.

Khadgar began to pant, sweat bloomed, beading on his brow; his chest rising and falling, straining as he wielded blistering amounts of arcane energy, calling out new commands, responding to Gul'dan's ever-changing magic. Despite the enormous power between the group, Gul'dan easily resisted them, behaving as though they were not even there, his powers enhanced both by the latent energy in the Chamber, and the growing presence of Sargeras. They were failing. Idira stopped casting at the tether, and called out a new spell, sending the temperature in the room plummeting. Another spell left her lips and a bolt of ice crashed into Gul'dan's barrier, freezing it. Malfurion fleeted a look at her, understanding. He attacked the surface with renewed energy, his breath frosting in the air. She sent another harsh bolt of ice into the barrier. Under his bear claws, the ice chipped. Malfurion dug, frantic. A small crack appeared. He threw his weight against it, slamming his bear's paws against it. The crack lengthened, but held. He bellowed, frustrated and pulled back. He ran at it, screaming. The crack gave way, and the barrier shattered. He slammed through the jagged shards of ice into Gul'dan, the force of his blow knocking Gul'dan's staff out of his hands. It skittered across the floor, clattering, useless.

Idira wasted no time, a quick spell tumbled from her lips, unthinking. A heartbeat later the fallen staff lay buried under a dense layer of solid ice, frozen to the floor. Malfurion and Gul'dan slammed into the opposite wall, grunting. The druid reared up, enraged, roaring, pummelling the orc, tearing at his face and torso with his bear claws, his wings beating back Gul'dan's arms, preventing the orc from defending himself. Khadgar and Kalec ignored him, continuing to focus on destroying the tether binding Illidan and Tyrande, their expressions fixed, intent, determined to stop Sargeras, to escape.

Though she knew she should be helping with the tether, Idira stubbornly threw more spells at Gul'dan, helping Malfurion, riming the orc's face and hands with ice, slowing him, preventing him from retaliating, giving the druid more time, willing him to finish the creature, the cause of so much misery. The wretched orc fought her spells, fel energy crackling around his body, every spell she cast, he diverted it, still, her efforts were not being wasted, what little scraps of time she gained were not lost to Malfurion. His claws dug into Gul'dan's neck, tearing him open, mauling him, the orc's blood splattering Malfurion's face. The druid bellowed, hungry, his animal instincts taking over. A flicker of fear showed in Gul'dan's eyes. Malfurion pulled back and slammed the orc down onto the floor, landing on top of him on all fours. His cat claws digging deep into Gul'dan's torso. The orc squirmed, shrieking with pain. Malfurion reared up, smashing his bear paws into the creature's twisted face, crushing bone, breaking teeth. His claw hooked into one of Gul'dan eyes. It came out, the orc screamed, agonised. Idira's heart pounded, Malfurion, the brave, reckless druid was winning. He looked up at Tyrande, a savage smile on his lips.

Khadgar cried out, despairing. The tether snapped free. Illidan crashed onto the floor, his massive weight cracking the stones beneath him. Tyrande came to rest on her feet. She raised her hand, slow, her eyes flaming. In a moment of pure horror Idira realised her mistake. She should have helped Khadgar, Kalec and Xe'ra. The eyes of Sargeras glared at Malfurion, filled with hate. A thick stream of fel fire burst out of her hand, driving deep into her consort's torso.

He shuddered, falling to the side, clutching at the gaping hole, seething with fel energy, roiling into him, tearing him apart. "Tyrande," he cried out, devastated, his eyes never leaving hers, "forgive me."

Gul'dan moaned, rolling onto his side, struggling to get up. Idira eyed him. Malfurion had done his work well, the orc's butchered face was unrecognisable. A gaping hole where his nose had been exposed the bloody interior of his throat; the socket of his missing eye seeped, a glutinous, viscous hole. Blood matted his beard, and both his bottom incisors were gone, snapped off at their bases, one of his ears hung loose, dangling on a thin piece of bloody flesh.

Freed of the tether, Illidan staggered to Malfurion's side, his chest heaving. "Brother," he whispered, stricken. He turned and lifted his cloven hoof, slamming it down onto Gul'dan's ravaged, bleeding torso, shoving the orc back down onto the stone floor.

"Even if you kill me, the Legion still wins," Gul'dan rasped, his words soaked in blood.

"The Legion hasn't won yet," Illidan said, grim, pushing his weight against Gul'dan's torso, crushing him against the flagged stone floor.

The orc chuckled, despite his obvious agony, taunting Illidan. "Wait and see. Nothing can stop Sargeras. Nothing. I just wish I could be here to see you try."

Illidan bent over, sliding his hands around the orc's throat, squeezing, cutting off his air. The orc didn't fight him, he lay passive, letting Illidan do his work. It didn't take long. Gul'dan shuddered, his eye rolling back into his head. A heartbeat later he went limp.

"Illidan," breathed Tyrande, her voice darkened by the taint of Sargeras. "You will be my Commander. Together we will cleanse the Great Dark of all life and defeat the Void."

Idira shivered, not from her inner cold, but from The Voice. Sargeras. Idira knew it, somehow it was familiar to her. A visceral memory. She turned and looked at the woman Tyrande, the avatar of the titan, knowing the moments were fast dwindling until their final confrontation, until her own annihilation, until she broke Khadgar's heart. Tyrande towered over them, powerful, magnificent, deadly. Idira didn't waste any time, she cried out a spell, directing a shield of ice to rise up around Illidan.

Tyrande laughed, soft. "How quaint. Even when all is lost, still they fight."

"Do not look him in the eyes!" Khadgar cried out to Illidan.

"Too late, little mage," Tyrande taunted. "He is already mine."

Illidan raised his arms and slammed them against the ice, freeing himself. Tyrande smiled, holding out her hand to him. He went to her, and kissed it. She stroked his brow, tender, as he knelt before her.

"My love," he said, "I am yours. Whatever you ask of me, I shall be that to you."

She looked at the little group assembled at the entrance of the Chamber. Disdain touched her lips. "Kill them."

He stepped towards them, his lips curving into a dark smile, malicious. Hungry.

"We have no choice. We must finish him," Khadgar ordered, hard, cold. Kalec nodded, grim. Arcane power blossomed in their hands.

 _Wait._ Xe'ra called out, urgent. Her wings spun, turning faster and faster, the pressure in the room increasing, her chimes resonating, ringing, deafening. White light exploded from her torso, surrounding Illidan, burning the fel out of him. Her light flared again, blindingly bright, searing Idira's vision. She turned away, her eyes watering. Time slowed, a blip, a heartbeat, but Idira sensed within it something had happened in the intervening time, brief for her and the mages, long for Xe'ra and Illidan. A low, mournful chime sliced through the sudden silence.

The crack of crystal splintering. The light cleared. Idira stared, astonished. Gone was the half-demon hunter, half-dread lord of Illidan, in his place stood a male night elf, unblemished, handsome, powerful, his eyes glowing a brilliant untainted amber. On the floor lay the scattered, blackened, broken remains of Xe'ra. Her light gone, extinguished. Idira stared at the fragments, dismayed. The last Na'aru. Gone.

"No," Khadgar breathed, stricken. "No." He turned to Illidan, roaring, hitting him with the full force of his rage. Illidan staggered, but did not attack. Instead he turned, casting spells against Tyrande, attacking her, his face a mask of anguish.

"Xe'ra has returned him to us," Khadgar cried out, cursing as his spell, already released, slammed into Illidan, sending blue flames licking over his body. Illidan staggered, enduring, grimacing, continuing his own fight against Sargeras.

Tyrande's face twisted, becoming ugly, darkened by the rage of Sargeras. She thrust out her arms, aiming at Illidan, fel energy crackling, gathering. Idira threw a wall of ice up between them, shuddering as her spell absorbed enough fel to demolish a city. She clung to her staff, prevailing, holding, protecting Illidan from the hatred of a titan as more spells crashed against it.

It was all she could do to hold up both the barriers, praying, hoping, willing the three men to destroy the woman's body, robbing the titan of his avatar, forcing him back through the portal, back to wherever he came.

She glanced at Khadgar, seeing the warrior, courageous, determined, unwavering, even against terrible odds. Fel slammed against the ice wall again, Idira swayed, holding, tenacious. Tyrande screamed in frustration. The hate of the titan filled the room, creeping into Idira's mind. She resisted, sensing the others waging their own internal battles.

The attacks went on, the combined powers of all three men tearing into Tyrande, burning her, yet somehow she still lived, possessed by the fury of Sargeras; her eyes aflame, her body ravaged, parts of her flesh hanging loose, her skin blistered and bubbled, some of it melting away, liquefied.

One of Illidan's spells hit Tyrande hard. She staggered, falling to her knees, panting. She fell forward, quivering, on all fours. She turned her head and looked up at them, her eyes smouldering. She laughed, and for the first time when she spoke, Idira did not hear Tyrande's voice, but the deep, silken voice of Sargeras.

"You think you have defeated me? Fools. There will always be another, you will never stop me. Azeroth will be mine."

Silence fell. Tyrande dragged herself across the floor, trailing flesh, blood, and fel behind her. She reached Gul'dan and lay down beside him. Fel energy spiralled within her, sliding, sinuous into Gul'dan and across the room to the others, slithering up around them, tightening, holding them captive within its grasp, linking them together, creating a new avatar.

Her heart aching, Idira watched Khadgar's power being suppressed by the fel, his fists clenched at his sides, his arms pinned to his torso, the Titan's power overwhelming him. Sargeras had won. There would be no reprieve for her. Her Light prodded her, gentle. Her time had come.

* * *

She passed through the ice barrier, the fel tendrils sliding between Kalec, Khadgar, Illidan and Sargeras easing away from her, avoiding her Light. She touched Khadgar's face, the fel tendrils encasing him parting, shunning her.

"My love," she whispered, "I shall miss you."

Silenced by the power of Sargeras, he could only gaze at her, communicating with his eyes; in them she read his desperation, his fear, his struggle to free himself from his bonds, his fury at his helplessness to stop her. His denial, even now, to accept what they both knew was to come.

"I lived my whole life to love you," she said, soft, the shadows in her mind parting, exposing the crystalline truth, its purity hidden until now by fear, sorrow, bitterness. She _had_ been meant to love Khadgar, her love for him paradoxically giving her the courage to face her death. "I beg you, forgive me, for what I must do to you."

He sagged in the grip of the fel. _No_ , he plead, his thoughts overcoming the power of the Titan, slamming into her. The spell from the font.

 _Protect Azeroth my love_ , she answered. _You are her true Guardian, just as you have been mine._

She turned.

 _Idira. Please. Light! Don't do this._

"Sargeras," she said, quiet, "you will not have me."

Tyrande rose up to face her, a slow smile spread across her blistered lips. "Ah . . . Azeroth herself comes to me."

A surge of Light rose up within Idira, responding to the dark voice of the Titan. She succumbed, relinquishing herself, letting the Light of Azeroth take over, its power resonating through her, thrumming, rotating, flaring so bright the entire Chamber glowed with violet light. The Voice of Azeroth came from her mouth, neither male nor female, but a hybrid of the two, echoing. "You are wrong in your thinking Sargeras. _Life_ will overcome the Void, not fire."

Tyrande raised her hand. Fel fire flamed from her fingers. "Fire is all there is," Sargeras hissed. "Even for you."

A wall of flames struck Idira. They slid over her frozen gown, harmless, extinguishing. She smiled, soft. "Even in fire, life remains, both good and evil. You cannot cleanse evil by destroying life. It is the way of wisdom to understand there must be balance. Always, there must be balance."

She reached out and touched Tyrande's fingers. The fel burning in them retreated, rushing back up Tyrande's arm and into her torso, sweeping upwards until only the colour of fel continue to burn in Tyrande's eyes.

"You have done much harm to me, Sargeras. I have been patient, but the time has come to end this once and for all."

From the planet's depths, Idira sensed the full force of Azeroth's Light gathering, hurtling toward her, a tsunami. It surged up into her, plunging through her, a torrent, the intensity of it threatening to tear her apart. She screamed, staggering, unable to bear it. Light exploded out from her, a pristine beam of violet energy. It rammed into Tyrande, spreading through her, freeing the night elf woman from her imprisonment, the titan slithered out from her mouth, roaring, furious. The sickening crunch of bone breaking, Tyrande's jaw succumbing to the force of his release. She tumbled to the floor, ruined, broken, bleeding, brutally disfigured. A tendril of Azeroth's Light wove itself into her, sustaining her, keeping her at the brink of death, holding back the inevitable. Giving her time.

Within their cocoon of violet Light Idira shuddered, quivering, reeling with pain, the power of Azeroth's Light scorching her, clawing at her, seething, surging, preparing for its final onslaught. Sargeras stood before her, proud, unrepentant, the shape of him unexpectedly human-like, his appearance terrifying, glorious, strangely beautiful; a being of immense power, shifting, wavering, pure energy, his eyes black, riven with darkness and hate.

"Azeroth used you," he said, cold, calm, eyeing her suffering, merciless. "I would have given you eternal life." He glanced back at Khadgar locked behind the wall of ice, her lover smashing his fist against it, screaming, desperate to break through; Kalec pulling on him, struggling to drag him back. "I would have given you your heart's desire."

Azeroth's Light answered him. Searing pain slammed into Idira, cold, hard, jagged, a thousand daggers slicing her apart. She cried out but no sound came, she lifted up her hands, watching as they fragmented, pieces of her breaking apart, swarming around her just like The Echo's body had done in the font. Light streamed out of her core, freed of her body, its beams pierced into Sargeras, breaking him apart. He bellowed, clutching at his chest, his power flickering as he fought to extinguish the Light, pulling him apart from the inside out.

The Light's power increased, more of Idira's body fell away, collapsing, separating, folding, tiny pieces of her, her life, her memories, broken apart, lost. Gone. Sargeras bellowed, falling to his knees, the Light continued to work, relentless, dissolving him into millions of tiny particles; darting and weaving through the swarming pieces, cleansing them, burning away the taint of hatred. His cries ended, silence fell. The Light continued to stream out of what was left of Idira carrying the last of his energy away with her through the portal into the Nether. Idira looked down, only a tiny part of her remained. The Light within her dimmed, fading, flickering, dying. A brief spark, and it guttered. The cocoon of Light collapsed, plummeting towards her.

She looked back one last time at Khadgar, pounding on the ice wall, crying out her name, trying to see through the icy barrier and into the blinding light. A deep bass vibration plummeted through Idira, her contact with her life dissipating as the last pieces of her drifted away, pulled by the nexus of the portal. It was over now, it was time to leave. She called out to him, hoping with all her heart he would hear her last words.

 _Khadgar, it was always you. Live, my love._

The ice barriers exploded. The winds of a hurricane blew outwards. She flew away, a leaf in a storm, sucked into the portal, spiralling, tumbling, Khadgar's form retreating, fading away. The portal shimmered, sealing over. Silence. Darkness. Nothing.

* * *

Smears of colour danced at the edges of her vision. An epochal silence surrounded her, the colours faded. She weighed of nothing. A voice, faint, called to her. She swam towards it, frightened. Khadgar? No, not Khadgar, another. They called again. A voice, filled with love, urging her to them.

Idira drifted in the darkness, lost, searching. The voice came again, calling to her, faint, as though from a great distance. Formless, she struggled to reach it, aware she was nothing more than her consciousness. In an immaterial place of timelessness, Idira fought to retain her memories. Khadgar. His hand on her elbow in Stormwind, holding her steady. His eyes on hers as he made love to her. Sharing a cup of wine together. The edges began to fade. Soon she sensed she would forget all of it, even what he looked like. Agonised, she continued toward the Voice, calling to her, guiding her, a solitary beacon in a place of utter stillness and silence.

How long she drifted, searching, moving in one direction only to have to turn back, returning in the direction she had just come from, she couldn't say, it could have been an eternity, it could have been mere minutes. She longed for the release of oblivion.

 _Please. I'm lost. Let it end. I cannot find you._

 _Daughter_ , the clarion voice from her dream answered, _you are so close. Do not give up. They are waiting for you._

Idira heard the voice calling to her again, stronger, clearer. A male voice, as warm and smooth as syrup. It called again, so near if she had had hands, she could have reached out and touched it. She reeled, stunned. It couldn't be. Too much time had passed. It was impossible. It had to be a trick of her consciousness. Wishful thinking. He wasn't here. It was a lie. A lie she was telling herself to cope with this unimaginable place of isolation and disconnection. He called her name again, a question, uncertain. She said nothing, wishing it would stop, wishing the torture would end. Hadn't she suffered enough?

 _Ya be safe now._

No. It couldn't be. She turned away. Unambi was long gone, broken down by the Nether.

 _Idira? Don' ya rememba' me?_ Worry etched his words.

She hesitated. _How can you still be here?_ she finally asked, wary, still believing it a trick of her consciousness.

 _Ya Light,_ he said, relieved, _when ya be killin' all dem demons, dat's what got me. Boom. But ya Light be grabbin' on ta me before it be too late, askin' me if I be wantin' ta wait for ya, ta give ya a second chance, after it told me about all da tings ya be givin' up for Azeroth. Well, ol' Unambi didn't have ta tink long 'bout dat._

 _It was you._ Idira said, overcome, realising the meaning of Azeroth's cryptic message from her dream. It wasn't a lie, it was real. Unambi was there, with her, in the Nether, his soul held intact against its decimating forces by the strength of Azeroth's Light.

 _So,_ he continued, _Unambi be havin' one last ting ta be doin' for ya. Dis time it be goodbye for good. Ya and me, we neva goin' ta be meetin' again, dat be da only ting I be feelin' sorry for, so don' be forgettin' ol' Unambi. It be da only way ta keep him livin' on._

 _Unambi!_ she cried out, sensing his soul fading away. _I don't deserve this!_

 _Ya be deservin' dis an' so much more,_ he said, faint. _Ya be real special. Idira. Real special. Be happy._

She lunged after his fading voice. _Thank you. I will never forget you._

He didn't answer. Silence surrounded her. He was already gone.

* * *

Grief enveloped Idira. She wished she could cry, but all she could do was ache, lost in the agony of Unambi's ultimate sacrifice, obliterated so she could return to the man she loved. She drifted, suffering, able to think of nothing else but him, gone forever, as though he had never been.

 _Daughter. It is time. The way is open for your return. I will guide you back. Follow my Light._

In the far distance, a point of violet light appeared, a mere speck, a tiny shaft, a pinprick of light probing into the depths of a black-dark sea. She swam towards it, working her way through the inky darkness, the pinprick becoming the size of a coin, a plate, a table, the Light brightening, consuming the darkness, suffusing her. She moved faster now, the opening widening, a door, a room, a building, the darkness receding, Azeroth's violet Light surrounding her, enclosing her, tugging at her. She sped up, caught in its pull, the Light on either side of her smearing, streaking as she hurtled towards its centre, its core shining as bright as a star, spinning, rotating, pulsing, thrumming.

She plunged into it, millions of particles of Light plummeting towards her, swarming around her, rebuilding her soul. She watched, fascinated as she formed into a being of Light, holding up her ethereal hands, their outline sparkling with pinpoints of glimmering light, tiny white stars. Ahead, an opening, a doorway, its edges churning, outlined in spinning whorls, an event horizon. She moved toward it curious; the light from the other side dull, pale, blue, cold, ordinary. She stopped at the opening's threshold. Khadgar lay on the bed in the fortress with her echo, his arms around her, holding her fast against him, her head cradled against his chest. He slept, exhausted, his face ravaged, hardened by grief.

 _Go to him, Daughter. You have served me well. My final gift will follow._

Idira stepped through the churning opening. Pain slammed into her as she crossed the boundary, darkness once more enveloping her, wrapping itself around her, pulling her downward; the unexpected heaviness of being dragging on her as her soul slid into the body of her echo. She tried to open her eyes. She couldn't. Her body's unconscious state captured her, holding her in its thrall.

A rhythmic thudding, steady and slow against her ear. The beating of a heart. His heart. She listened to it, filled with wonder, savouring the feeling of being alive again, laying with him, granted an impossible, incredible second chance.

She could wait, just a little longer. Safe within Khadgar's arms, she slept.

* * *

She woke to him dressing, his movements listless, automatic, his gaze fixed on the floor, desolation emanating from him. She regarded him, her heart aching to see the dark hollows encircling his eyes, the tautness of his jaw, the bleakness of his expression. He fastened the ties of his collar, turning to look at her, empty, defeated.

She sat up. He went to her, bending to kiss the top of her head, perfunctory. She caught his hand and brought it to her lips, drinking in the scent of him, almost forgotten; looking up at him, savouring the sight of him, alive, safe, hers.

"Last night," he said, tight, "you arrived in the library, three days after Idira was lost to me. I take it this means her soul has now been subsumed into the Nether."

"No," Idira answered, soft, watching him. "I am here. With you."

He blinked. "I don't underst—Hold on. You can speak? Last night you couldn't." He caught his breath. "Your eyes. They're blue." He touched her jaw, tentative. "They were violet when I fell asleep, I am sure of it." Silence fell as he considered her, looking her over, turning her face from side to side, examining her, working out the possibilities, the reasons why.

She couldn't bear it, to see his hopes flicker, brief, only to be stamped out by him, hostile, ruthless. "My love," she said, touching her fingers to his. "Azeroth has given me a second chance. I returned while you were sleeping."

Hope flared anew in his eyes, bright, lighting up his face. The light dwindled, suppressed once more. "No," he said, harsh. "I know enough of the mechanics of echoes to know that even for Azeroth there must be another, a soul extinguished so a new one can be brought to life. Azeroth would have needed a volunteer. No one would make such a sacrifice."

"One did," Idira whispered, tears pricking her eyes as she recalled Unambi's final words. "My protector, Unambi. When he fell in Westfall, Azeroth offered him the chance to wait, held by her Light so I could return. To you."

Khadgar's fingers slipped from her face. He backed away, staring at her, expressionless. "But how can I be certain?" he asked, anguished. "I want to believe you. Light! With all my heart I want to believe what you say is true, but it's so unlikely, so impossible. Outside of the font, nothing like this has ever happened before."

"I wrote you a letter," she answered, desperation clawing at her. After all she had suffered, to think she could still lose him, believing she was nothing more than her own echo. No. It was unbearable. "I left it under your pillow. The echo would not know of its existence, or what I wrote, since I wrote it after my echo was made."

"What letter?" he asked, abrupt, moving to reach under the cushion. He rummaged underneath it. His hand came to a stop, he slid it out, holding her folded letter, still sealed with the infinity symbol. Breaking it open he read, his eyes moving over the page, quick, drinking in her words, his chest rising and falling, tears glinting hard in his eyes. He finished and looked back at her.

"Tell me what it says," he said, ragged. "All of it."

Keeping her eyes on his, willing him to believe her, she began: "My love,

 _Forgive me. I could not tell you the truth, could not risk you trying to stop me from doing what I must, what I was born to do. What is inevitable._

 _I go to my end burdened with terrible regrets, grieving the time we will never have, the life we can never live, and crippled by guilt for the pain I know my demise will cause you. All I can do is leave you my gift, the echo of the woman who loved you. I hope she will comfort you as much as your echo comforted me, though I admit, it is not the same, and can never be. I pray it will be enough._

 _I am so grateful to have loved you, even if only for such a brief time. Every touch, every kiss, every moment with you has been engraved on my heart, to sustain me throughout the eternities I will spend searching for you._

 _Wait for me. I will find you. I promise, I will love you again._

 _Forever,_

 _Idira_ "

He stood completely still for several heartbeats, staring at her, indecisive. He lifted the letter, looking over it, reading it again, his brow furrowed. His gaze fell to the floor as he descended into his thoughts, rubbing his jaw, the stubble rasping against his fingers, loud in the heavy quiet. "And yet, I am still unconvinced," he murmured. He looked up at her, sharp, a glimmer of hope igniting, remaining, glowing. "When I kissed the echo last night, it felt different to how it felt to kiss Idira, something was missing."

She pushed herself from the bed. A tremor of weakness juddered through her, the forgotten heaviness of her existence still new to her. She swayed. Khadgar caught her elbow, holding her steady.

" _I_ was missing," she whispered, her heart pounding as he stepped closer, still holding her letter in his hand. He caught her chin and tilted her face up to his, his eyes moving over her, searching hers, enigmatic. He hesitated just for a heartbeat, then brushed his lips against hers. A jolt juddered through her, sizzling, urgent, awakening her. He pulled back, his eyes widening, incredulous, feeling it too.

"No," he breathed, "it cannot be." He bent to kiss her again, longer this time, deeper. She sighed, returning his kiss. He pulled back, his breathing shallow. "And yet," he continued, "this—" he kissed her again, hard,"—this I know, like I know my own heartbeat." A tear slipped free, tracking its way down his face as he regarded her. "Idira," he said, stifling a sob, "you have broken my heart." He slid his hand around her head, holding her steady as he bent to kiss her again, harsh, rough, possessive. She answered him, clinging to him as he ravished her; as he cried out her name, still disbelieving; as he undressed himself, dropping his clothes into a heap; tearing her dress away, worshipping her, running his hands over her, marvelling at Azeroth's miracle; as he lowered her onto the bed, his hands tangling in her hair, his mouth bruising hers, fierce, hungry, angry, punishing. His arms surrounding her as he entered her, reclaiming her, making her his over and over again.

* * *

Idira woke to her hair being stroked from her face, a kiss, tender, against her brow.

"Never leave me again," Khadgar murmured, ragged, against her hair. "You almost killed me. From now on I will be your protector, not the other way around."

Idira turned in his arms, letting him kiss her, taking his time, lingering over her. "On one condition," she said when he finally drew back.

His eyebrow lifted, intrigued.

"You will be the one to teach me how to use this new path of magic." She lifted her hands out from under the blanket, the tips of her fingers lighting up with arcane runes.

"By the Light," he breathed, sitting up, taking her hands in his, examining them. "These are powerful runes. Azeroth has granted you a wonderful gift. At least you won't be cold anymore." He glanced up at her. His eyes widened.

"What?" she asked, suddenly self-conscious.

He conjured a mirror and handed it to her, smiling, the skin around his eyes crinkling, distracting her. She sat up and looked into the mirror. Her eyes glowed. A beautiful, brilliant shade of blue.

"Not again," she sighed.

"Yes again," Khadgar smiled, taking the mirror from her and collecting her in his arms, carrying her back down onto the bed, his mouth against her ear. "Let's make this room light up in blue, shall we?"


	23. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

* * *

Idira stepped through her teleport into the little garden tucked in a remote, quiet corner of Dalaran's Park. She gazed up at the shrouded statue, draped in blue silk. The official unveiling was to be tomorrow, but she had wanted to see it first, alone.

Under a star-drenched sky, she tugged on the cable holding the covering in place. The silken material fluttered down, whispering over the rose bushes planted around back of the memorial's base.

She stepped back, blinking back the tears blurring her vision. It was him, down to the last detail. The blinding headache she had had to endure to have her memories of him read and stored in an arcane prism had been worth it.

He stood, proud, fierce, wearing his full battle gear, his amberstone eyes glinting in the moonlight, looking out into the distance, his hand resting protectively on the shoulder of a girl who looked up at him, full of affection, a book of fairytales tucked under one arm, a small smile curving her lips. Standing on his opposite side, a boy, holding a dagger, his hair a tousled mess, stood in the defensive stance, ready for danger. At the girl's feet a little black cat slept, curled up, content.

At the base of the statue, surrounded by small bushes, a small pond had been carved into the front of the memorial. In the middle of the lily pads, a murloc, Margle, wearing a seashell necklace, frolicked in the water, scaring off the crabs, who crawled up the front of the memorial towards the trio at the top. The effect of the entire tableau was utterly charming, a fairytale.

"Without you, I would have never made it," she whispered, looking up at Unambi, her tears spilling free. "Without you, I would never be here."

She sank down onto a nearby bench, weeping softly, reliving her memories until the skies turned a deep shade of pink, heralding the dawn of a new day. She lingered, watching as the sun ascended, breaking over Dalaran's horizon; the fresh, clean light of early morning playing over Unambi's features, bringing him to life, his expressions changing, subtly, shifting, the mark of masterful sculptor.

A shaft of sunlight pierced through the trees, catching at the amber in Unambi's eyes, giving the effect of him winking at her. Another blaze of light broke through the trees, melting away the last shadows concealing his face; his smile—hidden by the night—suddenly appearing, just as she remembered it, confident, enigmatic.

Her heart aching, her eyes moved to the inscription engraved on a golden plaque in front of the memorial, hearing his voice as she read:

 _"Da Light be workin' in da most mysterious ways."_

She backed away, keeping her eyes on him, sensing his encouragement to go, to live the life he had given back to her. She stepped through her teleport and walked through Khadgar's sumptuous residence into his bedroom. He still slept, one arm flung out across her empty pillow. Dropping her clothes on the floor beside his, she climbed into the bed, savouring the feel of his arms coming around her, pulling her against him, warming her.

"Where were you?" he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

"Watching the sun come up," she said, settling against him.

"Mm," he answered, his breathing deepening as he fell back to sleep.

"But I'm home now," she whispered against his chest, listening, grateful, to the steady beat of his heart. "I'm home."


	24. Thank you

**THANK YOU**

* * *

When I started to write Daughter of Azeroth five months ago I don't think I really had any idea what I was getting myself into. What I thought was going to be weekly updates of about 5k words, turned into something much, much bigger. The story came to life, taking on a momentum of its own. I really had no choice but to follow along, caught in its wake.

Even though I was supposed to be working on another book, Daughter of Azeroth ended up taking over my life. I even dreamed about it. I loved it. It's been magical. What a ride.

Thank you so much for coming on this journey with me, for your comments, support and above all for coming back, week after week, staying with the story, for sending me messages to let me know how much you have been enjoying the story and how much you were looking forward to the next installment. You will never know how much those notes cheered me, kept me going into the late hours of the night, knowing you were out there waiting for more.

You'll be hearing more from me. But first. A big glass of wine, I think I've earned it.

xo


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